Welcome to Kaunas

Welcome to Kaunas

Welcome to Kaunas, as Writing with Labradors tackles a whole new challenge. Leaving the Peninsular War and Royal Navy behind for a short time, I’ve arrived in Lithuania as a medical tourist to get my right hip replaced.

 

 

I’ve written before about the difficulties I’ve had getting treatment for severe osteoarthritis in my hips. After a lot of heart searching and even more research, my husband and I decided to take the plunge and go overseas for the operation. We read a lot about Lithuania, particularly the Nord Clinic in Kaunas, joined a patient group on Facebook and before Christmas we booked to make the trip, leaving Oscar and Alfie in the care of Jon, Anya and Anya’s partner Ollie.

Largely because of how much worse my mobility has got over the past year, we’ve not travelled much. I had a relaxed break in Mallorca at the end of 2023 and a few short trips to visit family or to attend conferences during 2024. This trip to Kaunas hardly counts as a holiday but there was still a sense of anticipation as Christmas came and went and it was time to pack for the journey.

In the chaos of packing, organising the house and trying to get the broken central heating fixed before setting off, it didn’t occur to me I was going to be nervous, but the day before we were due to travel I unexpectedly realised I was absolutely terrified. It suddenly seemed insane that I was about to set off to a country I’d never visited to have a major operation. No matter how much I’d read about the excellent record and glowing testimonials for the Nord Clinic I wanted to cancel the whole thing and go back to bed. My poor husband patiently talked me down from my panic, soothed my tearful moments and reminded me how much better my life would get when I could walk my dogs on the beach or in the forest again.

Travelling off island in winter is always a slightly risky proposition and we watched the weather reports with growing concern as snow and ice were predicted. This is seldom too much of a problem on the island but it’s a different matter in the UK and on Sunday morning we woke to news that whole areas of the UK had been affected and that Liverpool airport was temporarily closed while they tried to clear the runways and de-ice the plane. We went to Ronaldsway and waited, stress rising as the flight was delayed, then delayed again. We were due to stay overnight in Liverpool but if we didn’t make it that day we would miss our connecting flight on Monday to Kaunas and the whole thing would have to be rearranged.

A day of stress, virtually no food and complete exhaustion ended with us collapsing into bed in the Liverpool Airport Premier Inn. We got to the airport so late that it was closed and the passenger assistance we had booked completely failed, leaving us stranded on the plane. I’d like to give a heartfelt shout out to the EasyJet pilot, Mark. It wasn’t his job to wait behind with us, to chase up a man with a wheelchair or to personally help Richard to get me down the icy steps from the plane. He then went off to track down our checked-in luggage and escorted us to the taxi rank to make sure I was okay. That man went well beyond the call of duty and I’ll never forget how kind he was.

Things went much better the following day and we arrived in a snowy Kaunas to be met by the Nord Clinic driver who took us to the Hotel Kaunas. Fear of not making it in time was now replaced by fear of something going wrong with the pre-operation check-up which would prevent me having the surgery. I have no idea why I thought this might be an issue. Apart from the arthritis I’m in excellent health, very seldom get so much as a cold and had no reason to think that had suddenly changed. It turns out that pre-battle nerves can take some strange forms.

Fortunately my fears turned out to be as unnecessary as my patient husband had said they would be. All was well at the clinic this morning and with the knowledge that the surgery can go ahead, along with my first experience of the kindness and professionalism of the Nord Clinic staff, my mood improved significantly. Suddenly I realised I was in a new city, the snow had mostly gone, though it was cold and drizzling rain and I wanted to go out.

Richard made faint murmuring sounds about whether it was wise to go for a walk when the pavements are still covered in slush and I forgot to bring my walking stick from home. He didn’t really argue for long though. I’d spent far too long inside over the past few days, perched on uncomfortable airport seats or wedged painfully into airplane seats without enough leg room. I set off with a mission; I wanted to see the river and at least a little bit of the old town. Richard had a mission of his own which was to buy me a new walking stick before I killed myself.

Both missions were successful. We made it down to the old town despite slightly miserable weather and once we got there, Richard gleefully spotted some rather lovely hand carved walking sticks in a shop which sold local arts and crafts. The shopkeeper helped me to test for the right size and I was delighted with my new stick, for several reasons. It will enable me to make the most of my limited visit to Kaunas before I’m laid up after the operation. It will also be a rather lovely souvenir. Finally, it made me think affectionately of my late father, who bequeathed me a fine collection of walking sticks, mainly because of the number of times he left home without his and had to buy a new one while he was away. I felt like a bit of an idiot for forgetting mine but I’m rather pleased now. I just have to make sure I don’t leave this one in the hotel room.

Our hotel is on the Laisvės Alėja which translates as Liberty Boulevard. It is apparently the longest pedestrian street in Eastern Europe and was mostly built in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. On our way down to the old town we passed an open square with several statues and a memorial plaque. It looks a little bare at this time of year though I suspect it must be pretty in the summer months. The plaque tells a tragic story from a very different era to the one I’m used to reading and writing about. It is a memorial to Romas Kalanta, a 19-year-old Lithuanian student who killed himself by self-immolation in an act of protest against the Soviet regime in Lithuania. 

At noon on 14 May 1972, Kalanta poured three litres of petrol over himself and set himself on fire in the square in front of the Kaunas State Musical Theatre where, in 1940, a puppet legislature had declared the establishment of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic and petitioned the Soviet Union to admit Lithuania as one of the soviet socialist republics. He left a note on a bench which blamed the regime for his death. Kalanta’s suicide. His death provoked a wave of anti-Soviet public demonstrations throughout 1972 and 1973 including 13 other suicides by fire. 

I’d done a little reading about the history of Lithuania before setting out on this trip, so I knew the outline of its struggle with the Soviet Union. Reading about a nineteen year old giving his life in such a horrific way brought the background sharply into focus. As always, it’s the story of individuals that makes history real for me and this was such a sad one.

There are some lovely buildings in the old town, though slippery streets and some major building work meant I was cautious about exploring as much as I wanted to. I really took a liking to this particular house though. It’s known as the House of Perkunas which means the House of Thunder and was named after a sculpture of the god Perkunas which was found in the house during some renovations in 1818. The house was built at the end of the fifteenth century by a wealthy townsman and was later the home of a famous Jesuit historian. In 1844 the first drama theatre in Kaunas was established there. In 1991 it was returned to the Jesuits and is now used for educational purposes as well as housing a museum dedicated to the poet Adam Mickiewicz.

 

By the time I staggered back to the hotel I was in some pain, though delighted with myself for walking so far. We rewarded ourselves with coffee and pastries in the coffee shop next to the hotel. Being restricted in what I can do and where I can go has been a big problem for me and I was pleased to have seen even a little bit of Kaunas. I have a whole day tomorrow and if the weather allows and I feel up to it, I’m hoping to walk over to the castle and get in a tiny bit of history tourism to go along with my medical tourism.

 

We found a lovely restaurant last night, called the Wood Fired Kitchen. It’s directly opposite our hotel and given its extensive menu, nice atmosphere and good beer we’ve decided not to be too adventurous with eating out and to go back there. It’s tempting to feel I should explore but this week I’m happy with familiarity. I’ve been very impressed so far with how friendly the people of Kaunas have been. Many of them speak some English and I’ve found them very welcoming and helpful.

Thanks to everyone who has sent me good luck messages over the past few weeks. I’ll keep everybody updated with how things are going and hopefully, with how work is progressing while I’m convalescing. After all, there are always stories to be written.

Signing off for today from Writing with Labradors does Lithuania. Looking forward to a new hip and some new adventures once this operation is done.

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.

The French Lieutanant

Welcome to the French Lieutenant, my Christmas story for 2024. As always it’s freely available on my website, so please share as much as you like.

This is not the first short story I’ve written about a French prisoner of war. In an Impossible Attachment back in 2018, Lieutenant Damien Cavel managed to escape before he is marched onto the transport to England. Raoul Delon is not as lucky in this story. Or perhaps he is.

I read a lot about the arrangements for captured French officers in the various parole towns around England and Scotland. The rules were the same in every town but the application of them seems to have varied widely. The parole agents were often open to bribery and some officers broke their parole and escaped back to France. Curfew and boundaries were strictly enforced in many places and very lax in others. I suspect that in towns where the prisoners gave no trouble and got on with the locals, they were give a lot more latitude than in towns where there were drunken brawls and resentment. Some officers brought their wives with them. Others found wives among the local girls. Some chose not to go back to France at the end of the war.

It only recently occurred to me that my fictional industrial town of Thorndale was exactly the kind of place designated as a parole town. It gave me the opportunity to revisit a storyline which began in the very first book in the Peninsular War Saga as well as to introduce some new characters. There are also one or two links to a Formidable Frontier, my most recent book and to the Kittiwake, my Halloween story.

In the winter of 1813-14 there is still no peace in Europe, but in a small Yorkshire town there’s a sense of reconciliation and looking towards the future which feels right for Christmas.

I’m looking forward to moving on with my new Age of Sail series and with book four of the Manxman series in 2025. In the meantime I wish all my readers, old and new, a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As always, your enjoyment of these books and stories makes it all worthwhile. I hope you enjoy the French Lieutenant. Thank you so much.

The French Lieutenant

Yorkshire, November 1813

Heads turned as he left the narrow house at the end of the street and made his cautious way over the slippery cobblestones towards the baker’s shop. The stones would have been hard enough to manage in worn boots which let in water, but a marked limp and the need to use a cane for support added to the probability that he would slip over. Lieutenant Raoul Delon had been making this journey every morning for the past three weeks, apart from Sundays when the baker’s was closed. He wondered if the curious townspeople were disappointed that so far they had not seen him sprawled in a puddle unable to get up.

He was not the only Frenchman currently billeted in this little English town but he was the most recent and therefore the most interesting. Raoul had arrived on a transport after long appalling weeks in an army hospital which he was still surprised to have survived. His leg, broken by a shot while leading his men on the heights of the pass at Maya, would probably have been amputated if there had been enough surgeons available. As it was he had been left in an isolated farmhouse with a resentful Basque couple and a promise that help would come.

Help had eventually arrived, not from his compatriots but from a contingent of English troops on their way to make a new assault on the pass. By then Raoul was weak from blood loss, shivering with fever and starving, because his unwilling hosts refused to feed him more than scraps. The English had carried him down the mountain and into an army hospital. Raoul felt as though he had been transported into a dimension of hell.

Neglect had probably saved his leg and a naturally tough constitution had saved his life. When eventually he was marched aboard a prison transport to England, Raoul was no longer sure how much he cared, but he learned to take each day as it came. At least here he had shelter and rations and, for the first time in years, felt safe from either being blown to pieces on a battlefield or slaughtered in an ambush by Spanish partisans. Even fever, which killed more men in Bonaparte’s army than battle wounds, was less likely here.

Mr Farnham the baker greeted him with his usual surly nod and waited for his order. Raoul stated his requirements, keeping it brief. During his first week in Thorndale, he had attempted to make polite conversation with the townspeople. His English was quite good but he quickly realised that the thick dialect spoken in this town was nothing like the language he had been taught at school and practiced among his fellow officers. He knew they understood him perfectly well, but it seemed to amuse them to pretend they could not and he often could not understand them. He had given up now and kept his conversation as simple as his his shopping requirements. Farnham wrapped the bread and hot pasty and watched him leave.

Around the corner was a butcher and a row of market stalls selling fresh goods. There was a full market once a week, but these local stalls were out every day. Several of them were run by women and Raoul found them more friendly than their menfolk, though no easier to understand. His cooking facilities were limited so he subsisted mostly off cooked meat and preserved fish, bread and cheese. Once a week he squandered some of his allowance on a hearty stew at the Red Lion with the dozen other French officers allocated to this particular parole town and enjoyed several glasses of wine over cards or chess. Otherwise he drank ale, ate herring and remembered wistfully the fresh food grown on his family farm in the Loire Valley.

Raoul distributed his various packages between the big pockets of his old greatcoat and limped back up the hill towards his billet, which was a chilly room above a stationer’s shop. Mr Thorpe, the proprietor, was unmarried and managed with a maid and a manservant who also worked in the shop. The kitchen was old and the big range never lit, so cooking took place over the fire. Thorpe was perfectly happy for his guest to use it but Raoul always felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the two servants, so managed as far as he could over the smaller fire in his room. Coal was expensive but there were extensive forested areas within ten minutes walk of the edge of town and years in the army had made him an expert forager.

It was growing colder, with a sharp wind which cut easily through his shabby coat. The paroled officers received a weekly allowance which was paid by the town parole agent. Being new, Raoul had only just begun to receive his and had so far received no money from home, though he was hoping that his brother, who ran the family’s small estate, would be able to arrange it soon. He was saving for new clothing but in the meantime he would manage. This Yorkshire market town might feel inhospitable at times but it was nothing compared to bleak, freezing nights in the Pyrenees.

The cold made him quicken his pace which proved his downfall. Setting down his cane he felt it slide away from him and as he tried not to follow it, his bad leg went the other way. He fell heavily on his side and lay winded, feeling pain shooting down his leg. It panicked him. The break had healed but he had no idea if the bone was permanently damaged and whether it might break again from a simple fall. For a while he made no attempt to get up, but he knew he was going to have to. Unless he was lucky enough to be spotted by one of his fellow prisoners he did not think any of the locals would come to his aid.

He had barely begun to move however when a shadow fell over him and a man’s voice said:

“Stay still, now. If you get up too quickly you’ll be over again, lame as you are. Catch your breath. Here, you boy! Get yourself over and take his other arm. And your friend can take his cane. Bring him into Mr Arnold’s office.

Raoul opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Until he had rested his leg for a while he did not think there was any way he would make it back to his billet, let alone up the stairs to the second floor. He allowed his rescuer to help him up three steps and across a wide, tiled hallway into what looked like a waiting room. There was an old-fashioned sofa against one wall and Raoul sank onto it gratefully.

“My thanks, sir, and your pardon for being so troublesome,” he said, careful to speak slowly and clearly. “I will be better soon.”

The other man studied him for a moment then turned to take Raoul’s cane from one of the two boys. He handed a coin to each of them and waved dismissal, just as a second man bustled into the room.

“Now then, Mr Carlyon, what’s this? Is the poor gentleman hurt? A nasty fall and if I’d not been standing at the window, I’d never have seen it. Mrs Cobb? Where are you? Make some tea would you? And get Smith to bring the burgundy and glasses down here. I’d invite you up sir, but you shouldn’t try the stairs yet. Leg paining you is it? I’ve seen you struggle past a few times and wondered. Glad to have finally met you. Arnold’s the name. Henry Arnold, lawyer and man of business. And this gentleman who was ahead of me down the stairs to help you up is Mr Benjamin Carlyon, our former MP who lives nearby.”

Raoul’s head was spinning a little but he was relieved that he was easily able to understand Mr Arnold’s accent. He shook the older man’s proffered hand and that of Mr Carlyon with real gratitude.

“Thank you both, sirs. I am sorry to have been so much trouble. My name is Delon – Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th Ligne. I was wounded at Maya and captured soon afterwards. My leg has been recovering slowly but I am not yet steady on my feet.”

“Of course you’re not. Damned stupid of Johnson to shove you right at the top of old Thorpe’s building in my opinion. What’s your room like? Do they feed you? Can’t help noticing you’ve been doing your own marketing most days. Here, Smith. Take Lieutenant Delon’s coat and be careful with it. He’s got his supper in the pockets.”

Raoul felt himself blush. “I am well enough there, sir,” he said quickly. “Some of the officers stay next to the Red Lion and have a mess arrangement there but I would rather not feel obliged.”

Mr Carlyon looked surprisingly sympathetic. The servant had set down the madeira and he went to pour a glass for Raoul.

“Don’t get on with your fellow officers, eh?”

“I do, sir. We meet regularly. Only I have only recently arrived and do not know them that well yet. Also they are…” He paused, searching for the right word. “They are thankful for nothing. Me, I remember what I have just come from and am thankful for what I now have.”

Arnold fixed him with a look then accepted a wine glass from Carlyon and drank appreciatively.

“By God, you’ve got it there, lad. Whiny lot, aren’t they? My wife makes a point of inviting them to dinner every few weeks. Trying to make them feel welcome. They sit round our table moaning in French to each other like they think we’re too stupid to understand them. My wife speaks it well and I can get by.”

Raoul went even more red. “I am sorry for their manners, sir. I am surprised you invite them back.”

“We feel sorry for them. I’ve a nephew in the navy. Midshipman aboard the Venerable. And Carlyon here has a son out with Wellington. We’ve said before that we’d like to think some French family would be good to them if they were taken prisoner.”

“I imagine you would also like to think that your son and your nephew would show good manners,” Raoul said. His ability to converse with these two men was beginning to restore his confidence in his English. Carlyon grinned.

“Well there’s nothing wrong with your manners, lad, that’s for sure. I think some of the officers here regret not being sent to a livelier town for parole. There’s not many of you: only fourteen now you’ve arrived. There are hundreds in some of the bigger towns and cities. They’ve built their own communities. It’s boring here for your countrymen and none of them have brought wives with them. Are you married, sir?”

Raoul shook his head. “No. I am glad of it. It is enough that my mother worries.”

“Poor lady. Drink up. Are you feeling any better?”

Raoul shifted his leg and winced. “A little. I think I can make it back to my billet…”

“Until you take a tumble down those bloody stairs and break your neck,” Arnold said scathingly. “It won’t do. What do you think, Carlyon?”

“I’d be happy to take him but it wouldn’t be suitable just now. I hadn’t got around to telling you, but we have a guest staying with us – a young lady.”

“I see.” Arnold sounded doubtful. Raoul was beginning to feel like a stray dog being passed around until a sympathetic owner could be found. He did not like the feeling, but he sensed genuine kindness in these men and having received nothing of the sort for a long time he appreciated their intentions. “I suppose that might be awkward. Relation of some kind? Your wife’s perhaps?”

“Not at all. If it were my niece she’d enjoy the company,” Carlyon said with grim amusement. “We didn’t know the girl personally but her brother served with Simon.”

“Served?”

“Yes,” Carlyon said. Raoul understood what the man was trying to say and felt a little shiver of sadness for the unknown woman. He had been tactful so far but he could not let this pass.

“You mean that her brother was killed in battle by one of my countrymen, sir?”

Carlyon looked flustered. “Well yes, sir. Though there’s no need for you to take it to heart. I can see you’re the kind who would. He was doing his duty same as you were. The thing is, it’s very recent and she’s been left completely alone. There was some relative living with her; they’ve a house in Hay-on-Wye. A Welsh family, very respectable.”

“I feel much sadness for her,” Raoul said. “Too many men have died on both sides.”

“How did she come to be staying with you?” Arnold asked with interest. “What age is she? When she’s feeling more the thing I’ll get my wife to call. Introduce her to my daughter. Louisa’s a kind soul.”

“It would be the very thing for her,” Carlyon said warmly. “Give her a week or two to settle in. My wife is delighted. She misses Simon, it’s good for her to have a young person to fuss over again. Miss Lloyd is twenty and a very nice girl. The aunt she’s been living with died. Left her on her own in their big old house with a few servants. Lloyd served in the 110th and was a good friend of my Simon’s. It seems he’d only just heard of his aunt’s death  before he was killed in this latest action. He chose Simon to take care of his affairs if anything happened. Nothing formal of course: there’s a lawyer. But he left a letter for the girl and Simon sold his horses and the like and sent his personal effects home to her. Simon was worried about her; she’s young to be left alone in the world. He’s a responsible lad, is Simon. Not like…anyway, he wrote to us about it and nothing would do for my wife but to write to the girl to invite her to stay with us for a time.”

“I hope it’s a success.”

“I think it will be. She makes no demands. She has her own money and will inherit what was her brother’s. She just needed some company and we’re happy to have her. But that’s why I can’t offer Lieutenant Delon here my hospitality just now.”

“Of course,” Raoul said quickly. “She cannot possibly wish to see a man in this uniform. Please do not trouble yourself any more, gentlemen. I am very well at Mr Thorpe’s and…”

“Nay, Arnold here is right. You shouldn’t be climbing up those stairs every day and you shouldn’t be living off cold food because Thorpe is such an old clutch-fist that he won’t light his kitchen stove.”

Raoul looked startled. Carlyon smiled. “Servants meet at the market, lad. They talk. You can’t come to me and Arnold’s house has worse stairs than Thorpe’s. They’d need a hoist to get you to bed at night. I’ll need to think about it.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Benjamin. There’s an obvious solution. We need to speak to Howard.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Raoul had no idea what it was about but he felt it. Finally Carlyon said:

“No point. Helton Ridge is even further out of the parole area than my house. Mr Johnson wouldn’t allow it.”

“Rubbish. Johnson is flexible enough with the rules when someone bribes him enough,” Arnold said cynically. “And we all know whose pocket he lives in. Look, the Lieutenant can stay with us for one night. At least he’ll get a decent meal and Louisa can practice her French on him. I’ll take him over now and then I’ll ride out to Helton Ridge. If Howard can get permission for them to attend his receptions and Christmas ball well out of curfew hours, he can damned well intervene to make sure this lad has a safe billet.”

Raoul was horrified. “Sir, I cannot impose on you this way. It is illegal. It could end with you getting into terrible trouble and I might be accused of breaking my parole and be sent to a prison hulk. And I do not think I would survive that.”

The two Englishmen exchanged amused glances. They must both have been at least sixty and Raoul sensed a benevolent conspiracy between two very old friends.

“I’d go if I could,” Carlyon said apologetically.

“I know. Though I wish you would. It’s long past time.”

“I can’t, Arnold. Not after what happened.”

“Aye, I understand. I just think you underestimate Howard. He’s a good man. Let’s get those documents signed before I forget that’s what we were doing, and then I’ll take Lieutenant Delon over to my lady.”

Raoul made an attempt to rise and Arnold moved forward and put his hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Stay there. Mrs Cobb will bring you some tea, if you can stomach it after a good madeira. You’re not well, lad. You’re as skinny as a rake, as pale as a ghost and about as mobile as a fish washed up on Whitby Beach. Sit you there for a while and rest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to meet you ever since I’ve watched you struggle up that damned hill every day. Don’t worry about anything. Whatever we do will be perfectly legal and signed off by the parole agent. Sir Matthew Howard will see to that.”

***

There was a thick frost on the ground and the household was barely stirring when Gwynneth Lloyd fastened her cloak and slipped quietly out of the side door into the gardens of Glebe House. She had arrived in Thorndale in a downpour a week earlier; so cold and tired that she had noticed nothing about her destination other than that the house was comfortable with all modern conveniences. Her hostess was motherly and kind, and there was a fire lit in her room.

Since then, the weather had been unpredictable with fierce stormy days succeeded by brilliant blue skies and crisp cold air. Gwen sensed that this would be one of those days. She was an enthusiastic walker and was used to a good deal of independence but she had quickly discovered that her hostess tended to fuss. Mrs Carlyon had never had a daughter and Gwen suspected she felt the lack keenly. It made her an attentive but over-protective hostess so Gwen was learning to slip out when the house was quiet.

She had cried with relief when Mrs Carlyon’s invitation arrived. The news of Davy’s death, coming only months after the death of her elderly Aunt Cerys, had left her grieving and bewildered. She realised that she had spent the past few years in a constant state of waiting, believing his cheerful promises that once the war was over and he was home, they would make some plans.

“No need to rush into marriage with some local sheep farmer, Gwen love. You’re still young and Da left enough for a respectable dowry for you. Bless them both, they never saw further than the end of the valley but it’s different for me, and it should be different for you as well. It’s a fine regiment, the 110th. You’ll do well enough with Aunt Cerys for a year or two and then I’ll be home and we’ll rent the house out; you can come up to Leicestershire and I’ll introduce you to my friends. You’ll be settled in no time, I promise you. Just look at you. You’re growing into something of a beauty.”

She had trusted him implicitly and been grateful for his determination that she should not be left behind as he stepped out into a wider world. Some brothers would have accepted the first offer he received just to get her off his hands and there had been several as soon as she reached seventeen. They were from men she had known as boys, and still thought of as such, and she had refused them kindly but with relief. She had been given the gift of time and choice and it never occurred to her that he would not be there to honour his promise.

Gwen had been angry and grieving during those first weeks but also paralysed with indecision. She had no idea what to do now. Her brother’s lawyer, who had also served her father, had given her a very encouraging report of her financial affairs and suggested that she allow him to advertise for a hired companion to lend her respectability and to support her through her mourning period. Gwen did not want a stranger in the house but was already aware of a stirring of interest, a rise in the number of morning calls and invitations to tea from those local families whose sons she had already rejected. She was beginning to wonder if such a marriage was the only choice left to her but the surprising invitation from Mr and Mrs Carlyon had offered, if not a solution, certainly a reprieve.

She had studied the letter with caution, but before she had the chance to decide, a courier arrived from Spain bringing Davy’s personal possessions, the money from the sale of his horses and campaign goods and a letter he had written to Gwen in case of his death. There was also a letter from the wife of Davy’s commanding officer who had employed the courier. Both made Gwen cry all over again, but it confirmed that the Carlyons were respectable people who wanted only to help. Travel arrangements were made and Gwen set off for Yorkshire. After only a week, she knew she had found the refuge she needed and was immensely grateful to those who had worked to bring her here.

The Carlyons lived in a compact house built during the reign of Queen Anne. It was not particularly large but was elegant and well-maintained, and several generations of the family had been raised there. There was a small estate with a home farm and a number of long term tenancies and the place had an air of comfortable prosperity. Mr Carlyon had served for many years as the MP for the Thorndale constituency but had given up his seat several years earlier. He and his wife had raised two sons to manhood, both of whom chose careers in the army. The elder had died during the early years of the war in Portugal and Mrs Carlyon seemed to find it hard to speak of her loss. The younger, who had been Davy’s friend, was still with Wellington’s army which had just crossed the border into France for the first time.

Walking always helped Gwen think. She struck out across the frosty lawns, skirted the orchard and joined a narrow track which took her up a steep slope known locally as Gallows Hill. She had not troubled to ask the origin of the story. It was not hard to guess. The hill had a spectacular view of the town of Thorndale and the surrounding moors and dales, sparkling in the winter sunlight.

Yorkshire was lovely, even in this bleak weather, and it gave Gwen a curious sense of hope. She loved the soaring mountains and deep valleys of her Welsh homeland but she had always yearned to see other places while at the same time dreading that she would be disappointed. She was not. Beauty existed beyond the confines of her girlhood home and she realised, even in the depths of her grief for Davy and her Aunt Cerys, that she had not lost her curiosity about the world beyond her limited experience.

She stood at the top of the hill, breathing in the cold air and enjoying the glittering fields below her. The frost would be gone soon, and sheep and cattle would be out enjoying their winter grazing in the lower pastures. She found herself trying to imagine the steep mountain slope where her brother had fought and died. When he wrote to her, telling her stories of the places he had visited and the battles he had fought, she remembered feeling a fierce envy along with her anxiety for his safety. He had travelled so far from their rural upbringing. It had never really occurred to her that he might never come home.

Back down at the house the servants were busy about their work and there was the smell of bacon and new baked bread. Gwen went upstairs to change, then made her way down to the cosy parlour where breakfast was served. She found Mr Carlyon present, though his wife had not yet appeared.

“Out early this morning, Miss Lloyd. Nice bright morning, but cold.”

Gwen smiled and made a cheerful response. She liked both the Carlyons and was deeply grateful for their generosity to a young woman they did not know. She had heard Davy talk warmly about the bonds of friendship created during army service. She had not expected it to extend to his family and was touched at the care taken on her behalf.

They chatted about the weather until Mrs Carlyon joined them. Gwen saw that she had several letters in her hand but she did not open them, merely set them beside her plate. Gwen made a guess. Buttering her bread, she said lightly:

“Do you have a letter from Captain Carlyon, ma’am?”

The older woman coloured a little. “Well yes, my dear. But I can wait until…”

“Please don’t. After all your kindness – and his to my brother – I should like to know that he is well.”

Mrs Carlyon’s hand hovered over the letter. “I don’t wish to upset you.”

“It won’t, ma’am. The war is still going on and I cannot avoid all mention of it. Davy would have something to say to me if I tried.”

Her hostess beamed at her and broke the seal of the letter, opening a sheet which was covered with writing so small that Gwen deduced that her son was trying to make the most of the space. Mrs Carlyon gave a little groan and peered closely while sipping her tea.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed in surprise. “He writes from France, Benjamin. They are properly established upon French soil. How strange after so long. They have very comfortable billets and are hoping for a peaceful Christmas.”

Gwen ate her breakfast and let the conversation drift past her. She found it curiously soothing. It brought back the excitement of getting letters from Davy, who had never been a particularly regular correspondent. When he did write however he made her laugh with stories from the regiment, descriptions of the places he had seen and a running commentary about the misadventures of his commanding officer’s dog which frequently made her laugh out loud. It was bitter-sweet to think of the regiment carrying on without him but at the same time Gwen was glad of the news. It made her feel closer to him.

She realised Mrs Carlyon had stopped reading aloud and was casting a doubtful glance at her husband. Firmly she said:

“Thank you, ma’am. I enjoyed hearing that. It brings back happy memories of my brother. Is there any further news?”

“Well…only a mention of the matter of the French prisoners. I believe we mentioned to you that Thorndale is a parole town, though only designated one last year as they were running out of space in one or two of the other towns. We have but a dozen or so junior officers and they give us no trouble. It seems that arrangements are being made for the parole boundary to be extended so that Helton Ridge can be included. Mrs van Daan’s family live there, you know, my dear. Lady Howard has been hospitable to the officers. I wonder if she is thinking of offering accommodation to some of them. It might be suitable, especially if any of the officers have wives joining them. They have a lot of space. Do you know the Van Daans?”

“Not personally,” Gwen said. “General van Daan wrote to me to tell me about Davy’s death of course and then his wife wrote me such a kind letter afterwards. I did not know the prisoners were permitted to bring their wives with them.”

“The officers are, certainly,” Carlyon said. “Not that any of them have in Thorndale. They’re mostly juniors and unmarried. I’m glad that they’re moving the parole boundary. It should make it easier for Arnold to talk Sir Matthew into taking that young Frenchman who had such a bad fall. I told you about him, my dear.”

“Of course. I am sure it will all work out for the best. Sir Matthew is always so helpful,” Mrs Carlyon said brightly. “Now for today. I need to go to the drapers and then I have the intention of calling on Mrs Noah Battersley to discuss the Christmas boxes for the poor. If you would like to accompany me Miss Lloyd, you would be very welcome.”

Gwen did not hesitate. She was being invited to what would undoubtedly be a rather boring social event but it would be better than seclusion. Now that the worst shock of her grief had eased a little, she realised she had become very isolated and she was a naturally social person.

“I would be happy to accompany you, ma’am, and to help however I can. You mentioned a young French officer who was injured. What happened?”

“Nothing to speak of, Miss Lloyd,” Carlyon said briskly. “The young man arrived recently, wounded and very lame. He had a bad fall in town yesterday and his billet is unsuitable for his recovery. Mr Arnold though that Sir Matthew Howard might be able to help out. Now, would you like some more eggs?”

***

Raoul was overawed upon his arrival at Helton Ridge. He had visited, and even been billeted, in chateaux and palaces during his army service but most of them were old and in poor repair. This house had been built during the previous century and still retained the elegant classical lines of its Georgian origins but inside it had been brought fully up to date. It was not a museum but a busy family home.

He was relieved when the housekeeper showed him to a room in a ground floor annexe overlooking the rose garden. A fire had been lit against the cold November afternoon and the room looked cosy and inviting.

“It’s not that you’re not welcome in the house, sir, it’s just that her Ladyship thought this would be easier for you, without the stairs.”

“Of course,” Raoul said gratefully.

“We use this wing for one or two elderly guests who need to be on the ground floor,” Mrs Hibbert said chattily. “And my lady used to put Mr George and Mr Arthur’s friends in here when they came to visit sometimes, because there was no telling the hour they’d come in and she wouldn’t have the young ladies woken up.”

“Young ladies?” Raoul said, faintly alarmed.

“Yes, sir. Miss Anne isn’t here; she’s out with her husband in Spain or France or wherever they are now. He’s a major-general. Miss Katherine – Mrs Gisbourne I should say – has been living in London but she was sadly widowed earlier this year so she’ll be home for the Christmas season. And I hope it’s not all too much for her, because we’ll be having those children this year, with Mrs Patience van Daan needing peace and quiet with the new baby. So it will be very lively.”

Raoul was completely bewildered by this stream of information about people he had never heard of. He tried to guess what this nice woman wanted to hear.

“I will stay out of your way and be no trouble. Please assure them of that, madame.”

The housekeeper gave a sniff. “I wouldn’t blame you for trying, sir, it’s like a menagerie when they all get together and Mr George will be up from London as well, once Parliament is adjourned for the holidays. But they won’t let you sit over here on your own and mope. My lady always says a soldier is a soldier, no matter who he’s fought for and that the French gentlemen had no choice about it half the time. That’s why she has those parties for the paroled officers every few weeks. You’ll be able to attend now that you’re close by. For today, Lady Howard asks that you join the family for dinner. Five o’clock, since we keep country hours when there’s no guests. She asked me to tell you there’s no need to change; they’re very informal. She’ll talk about the other arrangements then. I’ll send the boy over to collect you and show you the way.”

He was relieved to discover that Lady Howard was as good as her word. He was shown into a pleasant salon which was set up as a family dining room. His hostess, an attractive woman in her fifties came forward to greet him and introduced him to Sir Matthew, who was probably ten years older than her, and to her stepson Mr Arthur Howard.

“Have some wine, Lieutenant Delon,” Sir Matthew said cheerfully. “Cold afternoon, isn’t it? Gets dark so early now. Are you settled in? Have everything you need?”

“I am very comfortable, sir. This is so kind of you, madame. Is it…forgive me, but does Mr Johnson know of this change? The parole agent. I have to register with him once a week to receive my allowance. On Wednesday. I do not wish him to think I am breaking my parole.”

“I’ve spoken to Johnson,” Sir Matthew said briefly. “And I’d already written to the Transport Board. I made a formal request that the parole boundaries be extended to the far side of my estate. It makes perfect sense since it’s bounded by the River Thorne on that side and I doubt any of you are going to try and swim that in full flood on a cold November day.”

“I am certainly not,” Raoul said. Arthur Howard gave a splutter of laughter.

“Wise man. Don’t worry about it, Delon. We’ll be included in the parole boundaries. My father has managed it.”

“With the help of my daughter’s very well-connected father-in-law,” Sir Matthew said somewhat drily. “There will be no difficulty, Delon. How are you feeling? Arnold tells me you had a bad fall.”

Dinner was informal, with dishes left for them to serve themselves. Raoul had expected to feel horribly out of place, but he decided that although the Howards were obviously wealthier than his family, they were probably not far removed in social terms. Howard was a textile manufacturer with several profitable factories around the town and a lucrative contract providing woollen goods to the army. Raoul wondered how much his daughter’s marriage to a major-general had helped with that, but he knew that was how things were done, in France as well as England.

It was the best meal Raoul had eaten since arriving in Thorndale and he hoped he had not seemed greedy. Fortunately Lady Howard appeared delighted with his enjoyment of her hospitality. He had the impression that the Howards liked entertaining guests and loved having a house full of people and he wondered if that had worked in his favour.

At the end of the meal, his hostess left the gentlemen to their port and Howard passed him a glass and gave a contented sigh.

“I am becoming old and fat,” he said, with the air of a man trying to sound regretful and failing. “It is a shame that I’m enjoying it too much to stop. I’m glad you were able to join us, Delon. Has my wife spoken to you about meals?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“We serve breakfast in this room. It’s informal; dishes laid out on the sideboard. We also dine in here unless we’ve other dinner guests and I hope you’ll join us. When it’s more than family, it will depend on who they are. Most will welcome you; a few won’t. I know which is which and my wife will let you know. On those days you can have a tray in your room.”

“Sir, this is more kindness than I deserve.”

“The French are our enemy. You’re our guest, Delon. As long as you keep to your parole and don’t do anything stupid, we’re happy to have you.  Don’t be an idiot and spoil it.”

“I am not an idiot, sir. I will not abuse your hospitality.”

Howard smiled. “Good man. Tell me about the Pyrenees. My daughter is out there, you know, doing God knows what in an army hospital. Terrifying the locals probably. I feel sorry for them. Where were you when you were wounded?”

After the meal Raoul rose to return to his room but found himself waylaid by Arthur Howard who towed him off to an impressive library to drink more port.

“I’m glad you’re here. With my brother in London and the girls off and married, I’ve been the youngest person in the house for a few years. Apart from when my sister’s brats turn up, in which case I’d rather be somewhere else.”

Raoul grinned. “I have two nephews. I remember the noise they make.”

“Good, I’ll have an ally.” Howard laughed and relented. “They’re all right really. She’s got two of her own, but they’re just babies. The little girl from his first wife is very sweet. It’s the oldest two that are a handful. My stepmother loves having them though. The rest of us have let her down badly in the matter of grandchildren so far. George and I aren’t married yet and poor Kate never had any. I noticed by the way that you were careful what you said about campaigning in front of my stepmother. Appreciate it. She worries about my sister constantly.”

“I will continue to be so, though I do not suppose your sister’s husband allows her anywhere near the battlefield.”

To his surprise, Howard laughed aloud. “You don’t know my sister, Delon. I doubt the poor man stands a chance. Drink up and get yourself to bed. You look exhausted. Bloody stupid to put a lame man in old Thorpe’s place.”

“It was not ideal,” Raoul admitted. “But I remind myself that I am here as a prisoner, not a guest.”

“You’re a paroled officer not a criminal. Surely the point is to stop you fighting against us, not to punish you?”

Raoul smiled. “That is a good way to look at it. Thank you, sir. I am grateful to your family and also to Mr Arnold and Mr Carlyon. I hope I will see them to thank them properly.”

“You’ll see Arnold in and out all the time. He’s our lawyer. You won’t see the Carlyons here I’m afraid. Their choice, not ours.”

Raoul remembered suddenly the odd conversation between Arnold and Carlyon. “There is a quarrel?”

“Not on our part. It’s old history but it’s not really mine to share.”

Raoul took the hint and took himself off to bed gratefully. He understood the other man’s reticence but he decided he would call on Carlyon as soon as he could manage it to thank him personally for his help. It was the least he could do given this extraordinary improvement in his living arrangements.

***

The visit to Mrs Battersley gave Gwen a new interest. She discovered that the ladies of Thorndale were enthusiastic at collecting donations for poor families to help them through the winter but less willing to visit their dwellings to distribute the clothing and bedding. Gwen, who had been accustomed to help her aunt in the village, had no such qualms and brushed aside Mrs Carlyon’s anxiety. Driven by one of Mr Carlyon’s grooms she sallied forth each morning with neatly organised boxes accompanied by woven bags of bread.

“We’ve given up sending them potatoes and vegetables my dear, though we always grow too many. A lot of those cottages don’t have good cooking facilities and even those who do don’t know how to use them.”

Gwen doubted the truth of that but knew better than to argue. She had found good housewives in the grim rows of miners cottages in her Welsh valley, whose only problem was having no food to cook if their man was injured or laid off and she suspected it would be the same in this manufacturing town.

The workers cottages varied considerably. Several of the mill owners had begun to build housing for their workers. Thorndale was a small market town being rapidly overtaken by the expanding textile mills which were being built to make use of the abundance of rivers and streams to power them. The local workers were accustomed to spinning and weaving on a small scale in their cottages and were often reluctant to take work in the factories where they were expected to work long hours behind locked gates.

Instead, the mill owners were beginning to bring in workers from elsewhere. Some were from the land, unemployed hands driven to seek other work in hard times. Others were from Ireland, fleeing from desperate poverty. There were also children brought in from orphanages and workhouses. These were housed in hastily constructed accommodation close to the mills. Gwen had seen the conditions some of the young mine workers lived in back in Wales and was beginning to feel a strong urge to have a look at these improvised dormitories but she was new here and must feel her way carefully.

To house their imported workforce the mill owners built rows of terraced housing. These varied a good deal in quality. Some were reasonably well-built although small and dark. Others looked as though they had been thrown together from left-over building materials. They were over-crowded, with many families taking in single men as lodgers to earn extra income. In one of them, belonging to the Battersley cotton mills, Gwen found a family of six living in their single ground floor room with four Irishman living upstairs. The filth was appalling and Mrs Swinford tried hard to prevent her visitor from entering the house.

Gwen went in anyway. She accepted the offer of a cup of weak black tea and sat on a hard chair, lifting the youngest child, who was about two, onto her lap without flinching at the state of her. Mrs Swinford was visibly pregnant and looked exhausted and defeated. She knew very well that the house was a mess and the lodgers were not ideal but she had been laid off from her job at the mill as her pregnancy advanced and they were struggling to manage on her husband’s pay.

“Our oldest girl is ten now and is working up at Battersley’s piecening – that’s where they repair broken threads under the looms. Children are good for that, ma’am. They’re small, like.”

Gwen tried not to flinch at how dangerous that probably was. She was not easily shocked, knowing what children endured in the mines. She asked questions about the various children and their ages and when she was back outside she found her pencil and note tablets to jot down the information. At her next meeting with Mrs Battersley’s charity committee, she would make a point of requesting donations of warm children’s clothing and try hard not to point out that if Battersley paid his workers a proper wage they would not be needed. Her aunt, a notable campaigner, had taught her to choose her battles wisely.

The gig had just arrived at the end of the lane which led up to Glebe House when a man came into view, walking in the same direction. He was tall and slim, dressed in a shabby greatcoat and battered shako. He was limping badly and walked with the help of a sturdy cane but he moved surprisingly quickly. Dobson slowed the horse and the man turned at the sound. He took in the groom with a lady seated on the box beside him and stepped aside to let them pass, removing his hat and bowing politely. Gwen felt a little shock as she realised that the uniform jacket under the coat was blue and that this must be one of the French prisoners.

Dobson gave a nod of acknowledgement and flicked the reins. Gwen felt unexpectedly confused. The man was clearly making his way up to the house; there was nothing else on this road apart from a few farms some miles on, and her instinct was to offer a lame visitor a lift. At the same time she was painfully aware that he was French. He was an enemy.

As the gig passed him, he bowed again then looked up directly at her. Gwen was surprised at how young he was; probably no more than a few years older than her. Dark, curly hair framed a distinctive face with pronounced cheekbones and dark-blue eyes. He looked nothing like a soldier and certainly nothing like the marauding monsters which had haunted her dreams these past weeks, cutting down her brother over and over. He looked like a rather weary schoolboy.

“Dobson, wait.”

The groom hauled on the reins with a muttered complaint. His attitude suggested that a female who had dragged him round all the worst slums in Thorndale was exactly the kind of female to pick up a French prisoner. Gwen decided to her surprise that he was right. She tried a tentative smile and it came out quite well.

“Are you going up to visit Mr Carlyon, sir?” she asked.

“I am, mademoiselle. Do you know if he is at home?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid. I’ve been out all morning. It’s at least another mile though and the track is uneven. Why don’t you climb up and we’ll give you a lift?”

He hesitated. Gwen could not decide if it was because he thought he should refuse or because he was unable to scramble up. Before she could decide, Dobson made a snorting noise and reached out a hand. The Frenchman made it up onto the box without mishap and replaced his hat.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. It is very kind. I should introduce myself. Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th Ligne.”

“I am Miss Lloyd. I am staying as a guest of the Carlyons at present.”

She saw immediately that her words meant something to him. He looked a little startled and then dropped his gaze. She considered the matter and suddenly understood.

“I collect you have heard about me, sir.”

He looked up quickly. “Only that Mr Carlyon had a guest, mademoiselle. And that you were recently bereaved.”

She indicated her dark cloak. “My aunt and then my brother. It has been difficult. I was grateful for this invitation.”

“Are the Carlyons related to you?”

“No. My brother served with their son, Captain Simon Carlyon.”

She could see that he was genuinely upset and was surprised at her desire to reassure him but she could not think of what to say. He was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. She realised he wore no gloves and thought he must be freezing. He looked up.

“I am so sorry about your brother, mademoiselle. There is nothing more that I can say. So many brave men have died.”

She felt a little rush of sympathy. “On both sides, sir. If you had not been lucky, your family might have endured the same. Please don’t upset yourself. I should not blame every Frenchman I meet for what happened. The fault lies with those whose policies created this war.”

His lips twisted into an attempt at a wry smile. “And for those who will not end it. There is certainly a Frenchman – or a Corsican – at fault for that.”

“It isn’t you though.”

The smile widened and she blinked a little at how much it changed his serious face. “Thank you for that.”

They had turned through the gates of Glebe House and as they drew up on the carriage drive, one of the footmen emerged to help Gwen down from the gig. He performed the same office for the Frenchman, looking rather surprised.

“Jackson, this is Lieutenant Delon who has come to call on Mr Carlyon. Is he at home?”

“He’s over at Glebe Farm, ma’am, but if the gentleman would care to wait I don’t think he’ll be more than twenty minutes.”

Gwen shot a glance at the Frenchman. He gave a little smile. “I will wait if it is permitted. It is a long walk back. I do not wish to be troublesome though. Perhaps I could walk in the gardens a little.”

She smiled. “There isn’t much to see at this time of year, sir, but I’ll walk with you. Not before we find you some gloves though. Your hands are turning blue. Jackson, could you ask Mr Carlyon’s man if…”

“I will see what I can do, ma’am,” the footman said rigidly.

They walked through the half-bare shrubbery and between neatly weeded beds, bare for winter. Tree branches soared starkly against a blue winter sky and Gwen threw back her head to watch some magpies swooping overhead before diving down in search of food in the hedgerows. They walked down to the coppice and she asked him questions about his home and his family. He asked more tentatively about Wales and about Davy. Talking about him to a man who had been an officer and understood something about the life her brother must have led was surprisingly comforting.

Very brief enquiries told her that by the time Davy died, this man had already been a prisoner in an army hospital, unsure if he would keep his leg or even survive. She was glad to know that it could not have been him giving the order for the musket volley which had killed her brother. She liked this diffident young man and rather wished that the Carlyons had not been so careful of her grief and had asked him to stay with them.

She asked rather shyly if he would mind if she practiced her French. He appeared delighted and they talked awkwardly for a while. At her request he gently corrected her pronunciation and they shared laughter at some of her efforts. He told her of his problems understanding the Yorkshire accent and laughed again when she admitted that at times she had the same problem.

They saw Carlyon in the distance, riding back towards the house and turned to stroll back. He glanced at her.

“I have a rather strange question, Miss Lloyd. May I?”

“I’ll help if I can,” she said cautiously.

“It is about Mr Carlyon and Sir Matthew Howard. I have met them both now and they seem like good men. Both have connections to the army. Sir Matthew’s son-in-law and Mr Carlyon’s son. I think they know each other.”

“They do. Mrs van Daan, who is Sir Matthew’s daughter, wrote to me, suggesting that I accept this invitation. She was so kind.”

“And yet two such men are not friends. More than that; they do not meet at all. When it was suggested that my billet be changed, Mr Arnold approached Sir Matthew. It was clear that for some reason, Mr Carlyon could not. And Mr Arthur Howard said the same thing. It makes me a little sad. Have you any idea why?”

“No,” Gwen said. “I’ve only been here for two weeks, sir, but it seems very strange. It’s clear that Major-General van Daan and his wife are on very good terms with Captain Carlyon. I cannot imagine what could have come between their seniors.”

“Forgive me. It is not my business, I know. I am just here to thank Mr Carlyon for his intervention and his kindness.”

Gwen hesitated. “I’m glad you came,” she said abruptly. “I realise I’ve been worried about running into any of the French gentlemen on parole here. It was silly. I won’t care about it now. I’m glad we met.”

“So am I, Miss Lloyd.”

“I’m not sure if it will help. But if you really want to know, I can probably find out.”

He looked surprised. “But how?”

She grinned. “I have become acquainted with several ladies who busy themselves on charitable matters. One of them has a daughter, Miss Lucy Battersley who has invited me to take tea with her on Tuesday. She is unmarried and loves to gossip.”

He stared at her, arrested. “Truly? How will I know…?”

“I’ll send you a note and we will arrange to meet. Up at the coppice perhaps.”

He gave her his startling smile and she basked in it unashamedly for a moment.

“The exercise is good for my leg,” he assured her. “But is this acceptable?”

“Well my brother was my legal guardian, though I am almost of age. Wait, I shall ask him.” Gwen put her head on one side and considered for a moment, than nodded firmly. “He says it is perfectly acceptable for us to meet in the good cause of helping his friend’s family, sir.”

She saw unexpected mischief dance in his eyes. “I am happy to accept this from a fellow officer and your former guardian, Miss Lloyd. I will wait for your letter with pleasure.”

***

They met on a grey morning, with dark clouds threatening rain. The Carlyons had become used to her eccentric habit of walking in all weathers and apart from recommending that she wear her warmest cloak and not go too far, they made no objection.

Raoul had been surprised two days earlier by the arrival of a box from home. It had contained both money and replacement clothing, including his dress jacket and an undamaged hat. His mother had also supplied new boots and a warm coat which was a considerable improvement on his old greatcoat. He had visited the barber in town and thought he saw a look of surprise and possibly even approval on Miss Lloyd’s face as she approached. He bowed, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of gloves.

“Please return them to Mr Carlyon, ma’am. With my grateful thanks.”

He saw her smile a little at his use of the word ‘ma’am’ which she had taught him during their previous meeting. She took the gloves and slipped them into her cloak pocket.

“I see you are rather better equipped, Lieutenant.”

“My family finally sent my possessions from home along with some money. I have been able to repay several small debts to my fellow officers. And when I went for my weekly report to Mr Johnson, the parole agent, he positively fawned over me in his approval of my new accommodation. Apparently Lady Howard has written to ask if it would be acceptable to invite his daughter to her Christmas ball this season. I am given to understand that this is a considerable social honour.”

Gwen chuckled. “I believe so. Do you…will you be attending, sir? It is several weeks away, I know.”

“I will, ma’am. I had not expected it, but Lady Howard tells me that all the French officers will be invited.” He studied her, not sure how to ask. She gave a little shrug.

“I will certainly not be able to dance in full mourning, sir. As to the invitation, I don’t know. I imagine it will be issued. It is issued every year but not accepted.”

“I think you have discovered why.”

“Yes. It is a very sad story. Miss Lucy Battersley was only too happy to share the gossip, as I thought she would be. A little too happy to be honest. I was rather uncomfortable. Shall we walk as we talk? It will be warmer.”

Raoul fell into step beside her. He was walking more easily with so much practice and she was good at keeping pace with him.

“You know that Sir Matthew has two daughters? They are not Lady Howard’s; she is his second wife, though I believe she raised them as her own.”

“Yes. Mr Arthur Howard has spoken of them. The elder is returning home soon; she was recently widowed. The younger is in France with her husband.”

“Yes. Anne. She is the same age as Miss Battersley and she tells me they were apparently friends. I’m not so sure about that. It seems that her brother, Mr Samson Battersley had hopes of marrying Anne. She was the local beauty and very much courted.”

“I have seen her portrait,” Raoul said quietly. “She was apparently only fourteen but she was already very lovely.”

“I think Miss Battersley may have been a little jealous. Or perhaps disappointed on her brother’s behalf. Anyway, it was expected that Anne Howard would make a splendid marriage. Instead she created a scandal of some kind with an officer of the 115th foot. His name was Robert Carlyon.”

Raoul felt a little lurch of his stomach. He turned to stare at her. “Their eldest son?”

“Yes. I don’t know exactly what happened. Miss Battersley was far too delicate to explain properly. She may not even know. Whatever it was, it led to a very hasty marriage and the young couple were posted down to the south coast somewhere and then on to Portugal with Sir Arthur Wellesley. Lord Wellington as he is now.”

“I see. You think the two families quarrelled because the Howards did not approve of the match?”

She shook her head. “It was rather worse than that. Much of this did not emerge until much later of course because they were abroad and Anne never told them in her letters. It appears that Robert Carlyon treated his wife very badly. Beat her in fact. Eventually some of his fellow officers intervened and Carlyon deserted. He returned later on and tried to kill her. He was shot dead by another officer, in defence of her.”

“I thought he was killed in battle,” Raoul said, appalled.

“I think for the sake of his family it is seldom talked of. They are well respected locally. I think it broke their hearts.”

“Of course it did. How dreadful. So that is why the Howards do not…”

“It isn’t the Howards,” Gwen said. “Apparently they have tried several times to mend matters. It seems that when Simon Carlyon arrived in Spain he was welcomed as her brother-in-law and is very close to the Van Daans. Which I know to be true from Davy’s letters. I think the Carlyons are too ashamed.”

“That is terrible,” Raoul said. He was surprised at how upset he was. He had only known both families for a few weeks but his sense that they should have been friends and allies had not been misplaced. “All because of the dreadful behaviour of one man. How could a brute like that come from such good people?”

“That’s what makes it so much the worse,” Gwen said soberly. “I’m sorry. I can see this has upset you. It upset me too.”

“I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“Perhaps there is.”

Raoul paused, staring. He had a sudden sense that this girl had been in search of more than just gossip.

“I do not understand.”

She smiled, took a deep breath and summoned her French. “I would like to help them.”

“How?” he replied in the same language.

“I am not sure. But all they really need is to talk.”

Raoul stared at her with a faint feeling of terror, as though he was about to get drawn into a situation that he might regret in a strange country and an unfamiliar language. She looked back at him seriously. She was a very pretty girl with a fine boned face and intelligent dark eyes, fringed with ridiculously long lashes. She could easily have been French; a Celtic look, from Brittany perhaps. He thought suddenly that he would be proud to take her home to his mother and introduce her to his brother and sister-in-law. The thought made his face warm a little but he did not think she had noticed.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet. One should never make a plan too quickly. I have an idea about the Christmas ball, but I need to think about it. It is very cold out here. Why don’t we walk up to the house? You shall present Mr Carlyon with his gloves and we will have a hot drink and get warm. You might want to mention how happily you are settled with the Howards and how grateful you are.”

“Will that help?”

“It definitely won’t hurt. And we will be warm. May I take your arm?”

He held it out with mute delight and escorted her up to the house. Part of him wondered what he had walked into. The other part had never been so happy in his life.

***

Christmas in Yorkshire brought a sudden flood of invitations which rather bewildered Raoul. He found it hard to shake the feeling that, as a prisoner, he should be held under more difficult conditions. Instead he was living in a comfortable home, on perfectly friendly terms with his hosts and their neighbours and being included in a round of receptions, dinners and dances along with his fellow officers. It made him feel immensely guilty about his men, presumably still living in miserable winter quarters on the Spanish border, awaiting Lord Wellington’s next attack.

He was delighted to meet Gwen Lloyd at a concert in Thorndale’s brand new Assembly Rooms. He had attended with several other French officers all of whom seemed to be on good terms with the local gentry. Some of them had been in Thorndale for almost a year and had been cautiously accepted into the community.

Miss Lloyd was with Mrs Carlyon and Raoul was immediately aware of the presence of Lady Howard in the front row with several of her friends. She rose and came towards him immediately.

“If I had known you would be here, Lieutenant, I would have offered you a lift in my carriage.”

“I thank you but there was no need, ma’am. I dined first with my fellow officers at the Red Lion.”

“Well you shall certainly come back with me. I understand Mr Johnson has given special leave to be out beyond curfew for this evening but I would rather you weren’t walking that far once it’s over. Thorndale is generally very safe but it is always possible that one or two of our less salubrious locals might decide to take exception to a Frenchman out alone.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I would be grateful.”

Raoul was aware of a hovering presence behind him. He turned to find Miss Lloyd smiling at him in a friendly manner. She had put off her black mourning for the occasion and was dressed in a soft lavender gown with black lace at the cuffs and hem. The lighter colour suited her and she looked very pretty. She held out her hand and he took it and bowed over it.

“It is good to see you Miss Lloyd. I did not know you would be here.”

“I persuaded Mrs Carlyon to accompany me. I love music; I always sang in the chapel choir and I have not attended a concert for so long. I think she was a little anxious about the propriety of it but I do not think anybody will mind.”

“Very right,” Lady Howard said approvingly. “I always like to see a young lady taking a sensible view of the mourning period. Would you introduce us, Lieutenant?”

Raoul did so and Lady Howard bestowed a warm smile on Gwen.

“I was so sorry to hear about your brother, Miss Lloyd. My daughter wrote to me about him. She and the General were very upset. I know how highly they valued him.”

“She wrote to me too, ma’am. She was very kind.”

“I have been intending to call, so I’m very glad to have run into you like this. I’ve been hearing very good things of you from Mrs Battersley. She tells me you’ve been wonderfully helpful with her relief committee and have taken on all kinds of tasks that it is often hard to get people to do.”

Miss Lloyd blushed a little. “I like to be busy, ma’am. My aunt was very active within the mining community before she died. I’m not particularly squeamish.”

 “I admire that, Miss Lloyd. I realise this is going to be a difficult time of year for you. You must miss your brother and your aunt dreadfully and you can hardly throw yourself into the enjoyment of the season while you are in mourning. All the same, I hope I may persuade you to have tea with me one day. And as you have expressed interest in some of our working practices, I would like to give you a tour of what we are doing up at our mill. Sir Matthew and I spent some time visiting Mr Arkwright down at Cromford and Mr Greg near Manchester to see how they have set up their workers’ accommodation. They have given us some very good ideas.”

Miss Lloyd looked surprised but Raoul could see the quickening of interest in her dark eyes.

“If it is not too much trouble ma’am, I would be delighted.”

“Excellent. I don’t want to steal you away from Mrs Carlyon if she has need of you so I’ll speak to her to find out when it would be convenient. I just hope it doesn’t snow. It comes down so abruptly here.”

“Are you from Yorkshire, ma’am?”

“No. My family were from Northamptonshire originally, but I’ve lived here for many years. You’re from Wales of course. I don’t know it well, though I spent some time in Shrewsbury just across the border.”

The conversation ranged happily over places visited and enjoyed until a bell summoned the audience to their seats. Gwen returned to her seat beside Mrs Carlyon, shooting a mischievous glance over her shoulder at Raoul. He took his seat wondering if this meeting had been purely by chance or if Gwen had somehow engineered the whole thing, though he could not see how.

The music was charming: a visiting quartet from York and a very good soprano. Raoul enjoyed it but found himself glancing over towards the Carlyon party. Once or twice the girl looked back, flashing him a quick smile.

“I see you have set up a flirtation, Delon,” his neighbour whispered in French. “She is very attractive, but in mourning? A young widow?”

Raoul flushed. “It is not a flirtation, Gerard. Just an acquaintance. And she lost her brother in a recent action at La Rhune.”

“Ah, I see. Not the right time for a romance with a Frenchman then.”

Raoul thought regretfully that he was right. It was rather a pity because he had taken a great liking to the oddly outspoken girl. He said nothing more. The paroled officers had little to do but drink and gossip and he knew that if he attempted to deny his interest it would pique their curiosity. Better to ignore their speculation and let it die a natural death.

At the end of the concert, wine and sweet biscuits were served in the adjoining reception room. Raoul slipped away from his friends while they were distracted by the champagne and went to find Gwen. Her approving smile told him he had done the right thing. She was talking to a tall, shy young woman who was introduced as Lady Carew, recently married to Sir Julian, the new squire. Raoul watched her draw the other girl into conversation and thought, with a sudden rush of feeling, how much Gwen Lloyd seemed to care about other people. He was not sure he had come across anybody quite like her before and he found himself hoping desperately that she would choose to extend her visit to the Carlyons beyond the new year.

Beside her, Mrs Carlyon seemed uncomfortable although she was trying hard to conceal it. Raoul suspected he knew why. Lady Howard had been standing on the other side of the room talking to some friends but as he watched, she turned and began to make her way towards them. He felt Mrs Carlyon stiffen.

“It is growing late,” she said, almost under her breath. “I wonder if we should leave, dear Miss Lloyd. Perhaps I can find a servant to go for the carriage.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Gwen said brightly. “Would you like me to find somebody?”

“No no, I will go…”

“I’ll be right back,” Gwen said firmly. She smiled an apology at Lady Carew and disappeared into the crowd just as Lady Howard appeared. She looked a little surprised. Raoul bowed.

“Miss Lloyd has just gone to send a servant for the carriage, ma’am. She will return shortly.”

Lady Howard’s face cleared. “Of course. Lady Carew, how are you? Mrs Carlyon, I’m glad to have caught you. I have a favour to ask you about your young guest. What a lovely girl she is.”

Mrs Carlyon was caught and she knew it. Raoul wondered how many social occasions she had missed in her effort to avoid just such a meeting. She was a polite woman though, and pulled herself together.

“She is a delight,” she said warmly. “I did not realise you had met, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant Delon introduced us, but I have been hearing about her efforts with the relief committee from Mrs Battersley all week. I wanted to speak to you about that. Miss Lloyd has expressed interest in visiting the mill. Not the weaving sheds, though I suppose she might also want to see those, but the workers housing and the apprentice house. The school might be of interest as well.”

“Oh…of course. It sounds very interesting.”

“I wanted to make sure she has no engagements with you before I arrange a day.”

Mrs Carlyon shook her head with a faint smile. “No. We do not go out much. I am glad to see her getting out a little. Her bereavement means that she cannot attend parties of course…”

“Is that what she wants?” Lady Howard asked. “Forgive me but although I realise she cannot dance, there seems no reason why she cannot attend. I had hoped to invite her to our Christmas ball, and perhaps to dinner one evening.”

Mrs Carlyon stiffened. “I…I do not know, ma’am. She is not under our guardianship in any way, she is just our guest.”

“A brother is not the same as a husband, though I have no doubt she mourns him sincerely,” Lady Howard said persuasively. “But for such a young woman, I cannot think it right for her to shut herself away.”

“I do not wish it either, ma’am. It is just that we do not go out much ourselves.”

Raoul could hear the desperation in Mrs Carlyon’s voice and he felt sorry for her. He was trying to think of something to say that would help, but Lady Howard was first.

“I know this is difficult for you,” she said very gently. “There is no need for a chaperone to visit the mill or to dine with us informally. Lieutenant Delon has agreed to be our escort at the mill and will be present at dinner with several other young people. Miss Lucy Battersley will be there and my daughter Katherine will be home by then and I think will be delighted to make Miss Lloyd’s acquaintance.”

Raoul was startled out of his sympathy. He managed to cover up his surprise and look as though he had known of these plans for his entertainment all along. It occurred to him suddenly that Miss Lloyd might not be the only one making plans. He shot her ladyship a quick glance and saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“Of course,” Mrs Carlyon said. “Nothing could be more suitable.”

“But she cannot attend a full ball without a chaperone, ma’am, even if she is not to dance.”

“I am not sure…”

“Please come.”

There was something stark about the words that seemed to silence Mrs Carlyon. Raoul was uneasily aware that people around them had begun to stare as though recognising the significance of this meeting and this conversation.

Mrs Carlyon took a deep breath and made a final protest. “Lady Howard, I do not think my husband will be comfortable…”

“Of course he will not, the silly man,” Lady Howard said crisply. “Neither will Sir Matthew. This has gone on for too long and they are men. Their pride will not allow them to make the first move. We had better do it now, ma’am, because I have it on excellent authority that this war is drawing to a close. If my younger daughter arrives home and finds that I am not on visiting terms with Simon’s mother, I will not answer for the consequences.”

Raoul realised with horror that there were tears standing in the other woman’s eyes.

“I remember her as such a lovely girl,” she whispered. “I feel so ashamed.”

Words came to Raoul unexpectedly. He reached out and took her hand. “I understand, ma’am. When I see the sadness in Miss Lloyd’s eyes for her brother, I am ashamed to be French. But she tells me that is foolish. I did not kill him and I could not have stopped his death. And two months later, his army did their best to kill me. I am not responsible for what my compatriots did that day.”

“And you are not responsible for your son, ma’am,” Lady Howard said gently. “Thank you, Lieutenant. What a wise young man you are. Take Mrs Carlyon’s arm if you will and we shall go in search of Miss Lloyd. By now she will have been waylaid by some enterprising gentleman who is gazing into her eyes and calculating how long her mourning must last. We cannot have that.”

***

Gwen drifted through the Christmas season in a confusing mixture of sadness and happiness. It had been several years since she had spent Christmas with Davy but she was assailed by memories of their younger days, with the valley under deep snow drifts; walking to chapel with their parents or going out with the shepherds to search for lost sheep. It had been a happy childhood and she realised that she had looked forward to his return to restore a sense of belonging.

That hope had gone and she mourned it. On the other hand she was unexpectedly content where she was. Her days became suddenly busy. She toured the model village at Helton Mill, admiring the sturdy well-built cottages and the brand new schoolhouse. She admitted that Sir Matthew Howard seemed to take better care of his workforce than most of the other mill owners she had encountered, though she wondered how much he was motivated by profit rather than philanthropy. Healthy workers could put in more hours and were less likely to leave for other work.

Lady Howard clearly invested a great deal of her time in the various projects, including education for both workers and children. Gwen spent several Sunday afternoons listening to children reading in the schoolhouse and tried not to notice broad hints about further assistance which implied a far longer stay in Thorndale than she had intended.

She went to dinner several times at Helton Ridge and was introduced to a number of other young ladies whom she liked rather more than Lucy Battersley, including Sir Matthew’s elder daughter Katherine, still in deep mourning for her husband. She met most of the other French officers and was grateful that her bereaved state prevented them from flirting with her as outrageously as they did with the other girls. She sat beside Raoul Delon at dinner and enjoyed his quiet conversation. At other times she enjoyed simply being silent with him. She tried hard to remind herself that after Christmas she must consider returning home and picking up the threads of her old life.

Gwen was a little anxious that Mrs Carlyon would be upset at the amount of time she was spending with the Howards but her hostess appeared perfectly content. Two days after the concert, Sir Matthew Howard rode up the drive to Glebe House to make a morning call and the following day Mr Carlyon returned the courtesy. Gwen had no idea what they spoke about but there was no more talk of not attending the Howard Christmas ball.

Gwen gave in to vanity and ordered a new gown for the ball. She could not dance but she was delighted with the modest silvery-grey silk with a short train, which was simple enough to be considered half-mourning yet made the most of her dark colouring. She was pleasantly conscious of male eyes following her through the ballroom but she was aware that she was searching for one gentleman. There were a number of dark-blue uniforms present but Lieutenant Delon’s tall slender figure was easy to spot.

He seemed to sense her approach and turned. She saw his eyes widen a little and then he came forward, took her hand and bowed over it with more formality than she was used to from him. It made her blush a little and when he straightened and looked at her, the smile in his eyes made her face even warmer.

“Miss Lloyd. You look very lovely.”

The direct compliment confused her for a moment but she managed to rally.

“It is clear you have been practicing your English on the ladies of Thorndale, sir. You are looking extremely smart yourself.”

“Thank you. I made a visit to the tailor. I thought it was time I stopped looking like a prisoner.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You have never looked that way to me, sir.”

“I have felt it. It seems to have been decided though that such matters as curfew and parole boundaries are to be forgotten until after the Christmas season.”

Gwen looked across the room. The dancers were forming up for the first set and she could see Miss Anthea Johnson, the parole agent’s daughter, partnered with Captain Gerard, her eyes shining and her face flushed with happiness.

“I think the arrangement has been very satisfactory for both sides, sir.”

“I hope that is nothing more than a flirtation,” Raoul said consideringly, following her gaze. “Her father does not really like the French. He will be furious if it becomes more serious.”

“Goodness, do you think it might? Is Captain Gerard not married?”

“No, he is unattached. I believe he is quite taken with Miss Battersley but her Papa does not like the idea.”

Gwen could not help laughing. “I do not intend to act as matchmaker to your friends, Lieutenant. I think we have done quite well enough patching up an old quarrel between neighbours.”

“I think that was your doing rather than mine,” Raoul said quietly. He stopped a passing waiter and handed her a glass of champagne.

Gwen looked up at him. She could not decide if a good haircut and new clothing made him look older or more like a charming boy. Either way it suited him.

“According to Lady Howard it was you who found the words to break through Mrs Carlyon’s reserve, Lieutenant. She told me what you said. It was exactly the right thing.”

It was his turn to blush. “I did not make any clever speeches, ma’am. I just said what I believed.”

“You spoke from the heart and she listened. I know you don’t want to be thanked, but please let me do so just once. I went to her dressing room as she was getting ready for this evening. She was so happy. It seems this is a very important social event in Thorndale and not feeling able to attend has made her feel rather like an outcast. She is back now, where she belongs.”

“Thanks mainly to you.”

“I think we made a very good team.”

He smiled and touched his glass to hers. “My one regret tonight is that I wish I could ask you to dance.”

Gwen blushed again. She put her hand to her warm cheek and he smiled.

“We are taking it in turns, it seems. That is a phrase I did not know until you taught me. My English is so much improved.”

“Yes it is. I think you have cheated. We speak so much in English while my French languishes untouched.”

“I am so sorry.”

“There are other ladies without a partner, Lieutenant.”

“I am afraid I do not dance this evening either, ma’am. My leg is still too painful and I would be too clumsy.”

Stricken, she realised she had completely forgotten about his limp. It seemed to have got so much better that it had not occurred to her that dancing would be impossible for him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Lloyd. I have no wish to dance. I have promised a French lesson to a very lovely young lady. Come, let us sit and we will begin.”

She was aware of curious looks as he led her to a brocade sofa in a small alcove by the big double doors but quickly forgot about them as he began to speak to her. She replied, listened to his corrections and repeated them. She tried some phrases of her own, interrupting herself to ask for the right word or to check her pronunciation. With music playing, dancers whirling around the floor and the noise level rising, she became completely absorbed in the lesson and in him.

Eventually a noise from outside the room caught her attention. She broke off, listening and saw from his intent face that he had heard it too.

“Whatever is that?”

“I do not know. Come.”

He rose, took her hand and drew her through the doors. They went to the balustrade which overlooked the entrance hall below and were startled by a peal of laughter which had to have come from a child.

“Now give over, Miss Grace.” The voice was that of Mrs Hibbert, the housekeeper. “You’ll have to come through into the book room while I fetch Lady Howard. We had no idea you’d be arriving today and this late. We’re in the middle of the Christmas ball and I’ve barely got the nursery ready.”

“Oh that’s all right, Mrs Hibbert. We’ll camp out in the book room until tomorrow,” a small boy said cheerfully. “We got used to camping in Portugal and Spain when we visited Mama and Papa and…”

“That’s enough Francis,” a man’s voice said firmly. “Mrs Hibbert, I’ll take Grace and Francis through but the little ones need to be taken to bed immediately. Miss Webster can carry Rowena if…”

Gwen could not resist. The children’s voices and laughter reminded her of her own small cousins back in Wales. She was already on her way to the stairs when Raoul said:

“They remind me of my nephews.”

She looked round at him in surprised delight. He was smiling. Gwen put out her hand and towed him down into the tiled hallway where an exhausted looking tutor and governess carried a small child each. A fair-haired boy of about ten or eleven was standing inspecting a family portrait above the fireplace, while a dainty girl of about the same age in a fur-lined pelisse had caught the sound of the music from the ballroom and was dancing gracefully across the tiles in a world of her own.

“Good evening,” Gwen said cheerfully. “You seem to have some surprise arrivals, Mrs Hibbert. Is there anything we can do to help? Neither of us can join the dancing this evening and we heard them come in.”

Mrs Hibbert looked at her in surprise. “Well, Miss Lloyd, I don’t rightly know. I’ll need to find Lady Howard without disturbing the party too much and I’ll have to supervise them taking the luggage up, since Bentley is busy with the wine for the party. As Mr Harcourt says, the little ones should go straight up, but as for this pair…”

She surveyed the two older children with a grim expression which imperfectly concealed her affection. The boy turned to give her a broad grin.

“We’ll be all right, Mrs Hibbert.”

“May we go up and watch the dancing?” the girl begged.

“You may do nothing, miss, until your Grandmamma says so.”

“Why don’t you see to the nursery, Mrs Hibbert. Lieutenant Delon can find Lady Howard and I’ll stay here with Grace…and is it Francis?”

“Yes,” the girl said instantly. She had stopped dancing and came forward, bobbing a little curtsey. “I am Grace and this is Francis van Daan. Who are you, ma’am? Are you a guest at the ball or staying in the house?”

“I’m just a guest. I’m currently staying with Mr and Mrs Carlyon.”

“Oh, Uncle Simon’s parents,” the boy said casually. “That’s nice.” Deep blue eyes were fixed on Raoul and Gwen suddenly wondered if her French companion was about to be insulted by the son of a major-general.

“Are you French, sir?”

“I am,” Raoul said gravely. He gave a little bow. “Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th ligne. I am a prisoner-of-war but this evening I too am a guest. I have been billeted here while I recover from a wound.”

“Really?” Francis sounded delighted. “Will you be here all over Christmas?”

“I will.”

“That’s excellent. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I’ve never met a French officer properly before, though I’ve met loads of English ones of course. Your English is very good. Where have you served? How were you wounded? Have you ever seen Bonaparte? Did you…”

Raoul was laughing. He held up a hand. “Enough, Master Francis. You may ask me anything you wish, but not all tonight. I must go to find Lady Howard. You shall stay with Miss Lloyd. She is my very good friend so do not talk her to death.”

“Do you speak French, Miss Lloyd?” Grace asked. She was surveying Gwen thoughtfully.

“Not very well. I learned it at school but Lieutenant Delon has been helping me to improve.”

“Well I wish you would help Francis,” Grace said grimly. “Papa says he speaks French like a drunken Irishman.”

Francis started to laugh. “Yes, he did. He didn’t realise Mama was listening. You should have seen the look she gave him. Could you help us though? Miss Webster and Mr Harcourt are good sorts but I don’t think their accent is any better than mine and I’ll need to speak it properly for when I’m in the army.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Gwen said, thankful that the weary tutor and governess had disappeared off with the younger children.

“Yes. I want to be a major-general, like my father. Or even a field marshal, like Lord Wellington. And I’ll fight the French and…”

He froze abruptly, realising what he had just said. For a moment he looked apprehensive. Gwen shot a glance at Raoul but he was smiling.

“I hope you will not have to, Francis. I hope by then, our two countries will be friends.”

“So do I, sir,” the child said, sounding relieved. Raoul looked at Gwen.

“I will be back very soon with Lady Howard,” he said in French. “Courage, ma belle.”

He had taken three steps towards the stairs when Grace said clearly:

“Are you married to each other?”

Raoul turned in surprise. He looked at Gwen. She was carefully not looking at him.

“No, Grace.”

“Are you engaged?”

“No, Miss Grace. We are not engaged. Just friends.” Raoul’s voice sounded a little strained, as though he was barely containing laughter.

“Oh.” Grace sounded a little disappointed. The Lieutenant turned away. He was halfway up the first flight of stairs when she spoke again.

“Are you going to get engaged?” she asked. “I think it would be a good idea. If you’re not married to somebody else, I think you’d suit awfully well.”

***

It took more than an hour to get the children fed with bread and butter and warm milk. Raoul was not quite sure how he and Gwen became incorporated into the arrangements. At the last moment, Grace insisted that he go up to the nursery to sing them a French song before they went to sleep. Lady Howard protested loudly but Raoul was absurdly flattered and assured her that he did not mind. He sang them three and they were almost asleep as he tiptoed out of the nursery accompanied by Nurse’s whispered thanks.

He found Gwen in the book room, drinking a glass of brandy. She handed one to him and he sipped it gratefully.

“Lady Howard had to go back to the ball. Supper will be starting soon. She has reserved seats at the family table for us, since she says we seem to have been adopted into it.

He laughed. “I enjoyed it.”

“So did I. I’m almost glad we couldn’t dance this evening. We’d have missed all that. You had better eat plenty at supper. I think you are going to be much in demand tomorrow to describe your entire army career to Master Francis van Daan.”

“As well as teaching him French,” Raoul said gravely. “May I take you to supper, Miss Lloyd?”

“I would like that, Lieutenant Delon.”

“Je m’appelle Raoul.”

She shot him a surprised glance and took his arm.

“Raoul. Je m’appelle Gwen.”

“Gwen. I do not know if this would be possible, or even legal while I am still a prisoner. I certainly know that I cannot follow you back to Wales without breaking my parole. But I cannot help agreeing that we should suit awfully well.”

He saw her smile light up that attractive face that could have been French and remembered that he had once thought he could easily take her home to meet his mother. Not yet, but one day, God willing.”

“Raoul, I would never allow you to risk breaking your parole. I think until this war is over I will have to find a way to stay here.”

He turned to her quickly, his heart full, catching her by the shoulders. “Truly?”

“Truly, my love.”

He bent to kiss her and was aware of nothing but his joy in her, so it was a shock when he finally looked up to see two children, both in nightclothes, standing on the stairs watching with benign interest.

“Francis, Grace, what are you doing out of bed?” Gwen asked. She sounded a little breathless and her face was pink.

“I just remembered there was one more thing,” Francis said. “Can I practice fencing with you? My father started teaching me and gave me a practice foil but Aunt Patience said she would rather face a herd of charging elephants than let me loose with a weapon.”

“I thought it was rhinoceros,” Grace objected.

“Was it? Maybe it was, I wasn’t really listening. Anyway, could you, sir? I don’t think Uncle George or Uncle Arthur can fence and…”

“Francis, I will fence with you,” Raoul said. Her hand was warm in his and his heart was full of happiness. “But if you do not go to bed immediately I will give you your first lesson right now and I promise you will not enjoy it.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Really? That’s capital. Thank you, sir. On our way. Sorry to interrupt.”

Grace was smiling broadly. “So sorry. And congratulations, Miss Lloyd. He’s very handsome.”

When they had vanished up the stairs, Gwen took his arm and squeezed it gently.

“Shall we go, before they come back?”

“That is a very good idea. Next time it may be pistol shooting. I think I should have brought the brandy with me.”

She was laughing, her face alight with happiness. “We can send a footman to bring it,” she said. “Come to supper, Lieutenant Delon. It is almost Christmas and I believe we have something to celebrate.”

Writing with Labradors does Lithuania

Writing with Labradors does Lithuania

It’s been a while since I did much of a personal update on here. With book nine of the Peninsular War Saga almost ready to launch, the Christmas short story written and work underway on the new Age of Sail book for Sapere Books, I thought I’d take time to let you know what’s been happening for me.

 

I’ve mentioned a few times that this has been a difficult year. Some of that has been family matters which are now much improved, but a big part of it has been my health. I’ve suffered for years with osteoarthritis in both hips and they’ve been getting steadily worse. I’ve always taken the view that pain is manageable and while I can still get out and about, life is good.

At the end of August, I had a fall and then another one. Quite suddenly the pain went off the scale and my mobility decreased very quickly. I went to the GP and had x-rays. There was nothing broken but my arthritis in both hips has moved from moderate to severe. My right hip is the worst and I’m now having to use a walking stick because every now and then it just gives way.

Working from home as I do, my ability to write hasn’t really been impacted that much. Occasionally I forget, and it’s only when I stand up and the pain hits that I remember. But there’s so much else I can’t do. My life has been turned upside down in less than six months.

I can’t walk my dogs. Those of you who have followed me for a while know that Oscar and Alfie, my two Labradors, are the joy of my life. Winter is a favourite time for walking, since they love splashing through puddles and racing up and down a windswept beach. I miss that with a permanent ache in my soul.

Housework is incredibly difficult. I can’t haul the vacuum cleaner about any more, and everything has to be done one-handed so that I can use my stick to balance. Cooking is okay if it’s something quick, but I need to sit down in between which makes more complicated meals a trial.

Gardening is almost impossible. I ask other people to rake up leaves and tidy beds, and there are bulbs in my shed which probably aren’t going to get planted this year. I’m so sad about it.

I don’t sleep. I doze off but wake up every time I move in my sleep and the pain knifes through me. I have strong painkillers and they work well for a few hours, but the effect wears off long before I can take another dose. I’m sleep deprived in a way that I’ve not been since having a new-born baby and with far less joy.

Everything is difficult. Shopping, laundry, tidying the house. There are other people who can step in and pick up the load but I loathe the loss of independence and the sense of helplessness. I’m a naturally happy, optimistic person but sometimes now I just can’t maintain that.

There’s a solution of course. I need a hip replacement. Actually I need two, but the right hip is the one causing most of the pain so that needs to be done first. It needs to be done now, but the NHS on the Isle of Man is in the same dire state as the NHS in the UK and the wait is unbearable. I’ve been told by my GP that it will take at least a year to see an orthopaedic consultant. Until that happens, I don’t even show up on the waiting list. That list is likely to be years.

We’ve spent months discussing options. The cost of private treatment in the UK has risen sharply over the past few years. We’re both self-employed, with no company health plan. Funding it ourselves is the only option. After a lot of research and a good deal of heart-searching, I’ve decided to travel overseas, where I can get a very comprehensive treatment plan for around half the cost. I could never have imagined doing this a few years ago, but I’m desperate enough to try anything now.

The Nord clinic in Kaunas, Lithuania has been remarkably helpful and easy to deal with from start to finish. They’re seeing so many people like me coming from the UK that they’ve refined their system so that it works seamlessly. After the operation I’ll stay for seven days physio and rehabilitation. I’ve joined a patient group and got to know a number of people who have been through this process and their stories are very reassuring. I’m scared but I’m determined.

It won’t surprise any of my readers that I’m already working out how to set a Napoleonic short story in Lithuania. I mean I’ll be laid up. I’ll have to have something to do while I’m there.

So why have I shared all this, when generally I like to write fun stories about my dogs or lovely walks through the glens of the Isle of Man? It isn’t really because I wanted to vent about the unfairness of it all. I have family and friends I can share that with. Mostly I think it’s because I hope it might help some people who are also struggling with this. I’ve felt very down about it. Almost desperate at times, as the people I love carry on their lives around me and I’m marooned here, in a place where I can’t be myself any more.

What I’ve learned from this process is that paying for private treatment for something this painful and disabling is no longer exclusive to the rich and privileged. I’ve talked to people who have taken out loans, dipped into their pension pots and even tried crowdfunding in their desperation. One lady sold her home and downsized because she valued being able to walk over a bigger house. And these, like me, are the lucky ones.

I can’t stop thinking about the people who can’t manage this no matter what they do. They’re reading the news about further cuts to the health budget and wondering if they’ll ever walk properly again. Their joints are deteriorating along with their mental health and the operation gets more challenging with every year’s delay.

There’s no quick or easy solution to this. Some people rant about how useless the NHS is. Other people are angry about that and list all the ways it has worked for them. Some blame fifteen years of Conservative government. Others blame all the things Labour did wrong before that. I can find bits that make sense in all of this, but the truth is that we’re an ageing population; the NHS hasn’t worked well for years and the abandonment of almost all healthcare during lockdowns has left a backlog which may never be cleared. There’s no point in apportioning blame. Looking for solutions would be far more helpful. I don’t do political debate in public and I’m not going to try.

I’m incredibly grateful that my amazing husband is completely supportive and will be with me every step of the way. I’m lucky that we’re in a position to afford this, though not especially easily. I can look forward to a time when I can walk my dogs through a forest again.

Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC BY-SA 3.0

In the meantime, my brain is mostly still working and I can still type. I can write about people scaling mountains and hauling on sails, even if I struggle to get to the back of the garden at times. I’ll keep everybody updated on progress. Wish me luck and expect to learn some information about Lithuania during the Napoleonic Era along the way.

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.

 

 

 

The Last Duel is now available on Amazon.

Kindle version

Paperback version

The Last Duel by James Spivey

The Last Duel by James Spivey: a review

The Last Duel is the debut novel of James Spivey and takes place against the backdrop of Victorian England and the bloody battlefields of the Crimean War. It’s a fast-paced tale of family feuds, star-crossed lovers and the kind of military incompetence that is hard to believe and at times even harder to read.

Spivey’s style is energetic and keeps the story moving along. He has clearly done a lot of research but manages to keep military detail from swamping his narrative. He freely acknowledges his love of traditional historical fiction, particularly the Flashman series and there are a few delicately dropped references to other books which were fun to spot. This isn’t a copy though, or even a tribute.

What I liked about the book was the characterisation. Spivey’s characters, both real and fictional are lively, entertaining and believable. It’s easy to over-write feuding brothers into caricatures of good and evil, but Harry and Jack Paget are both flawed and at times both vulnerable.

It is his portrayal of his female characters that really impressed me. For anyone who has read her diaries, Fanny Duberly is clearly a gift to any historical novelist and Spivey makes the most of her. It is Eliza however who steals the show, and to some extent runs away with the book.

All in all, a thoroughly good first novel and I hope to see more from James Spivey in the future.

The Last Duel is available on Amazon on both Kindle and Paperback

The Kittiwake

Sailing ship by moonlight by Carl Bille

The Kittiwake

Welcome to the Kittiwake, my Halloween short story for 2024. As always it’s free, so please share as much as you like. The story is also available as a PDF.

The Kittiwake PDF

 

Every year I wonder if I’m going to be able to come up with enough ideas to keep this tradition going and somehow, once I sit down, the story comes. This year I’ve returned to the Isle of Man for my ghost story. It’s also a story of hardship and tragedy.

Most of the places mentioned in this story existed and can be seen today. The Dragon’s Back rocks are an invention of mine, though there were and still are many such dangerous rocks around these shores.

The shipwreck mentioned is fictional but I’ve based the story on several well known historic shipwrecks including that of the Racehorse which went down along this coastline in December 1822. On that occasion, most of the crew were saved but several local men lost their lives going out in small boats on rescue attempts.

In October 1822 Sir William Hillary, a former Liverpool merchant, had taken part in a dangerous rescue operation during a storm in Douglas Bay. He was not present during the sinking of the Racehorse but it was one of a series of events which convinced him of the need for a properly organised lifeboat organisation. The rest, of course, is history.

For those who aren’t familiar with my work, the story of Elijah Winterton’s arrival in the Royal Navy is told in An Inescapable Justice, a previous short story. Captain Luke Winterton made an appearance in This Bloody Shore which is book three of the Manxman series and Mr Thomas Young was the hero of Colby Fair, my Christmas story a few years back.

2024 is the 200th anniversary of the founding of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. This story is dedicated to the men and women who risk their lives to save others at sea, to those they’ve saved and to those for whom rescue wasn’t possible. They all deserve to be remembered.

The Kittiwake

September 1813

It was raining in Castletown: an autumn mist which was deceptively fine but soaked through cloaks and pelisses as surely as any downpour. The newest clerk in the Harbour Master’s office had stayed late to check some figures regarding a cargo of wine which had been unloaded earlier in the day. It was not really the job of Assistant Clerk Winterton to check the work of the senior clerk, but during the four months of his employment in the Isle of Mann, he had realised that Mr Faragher’s eyesight was fading, along with his memory.

Elijah Winterton quite liked Mr Faragher, who had been kind to his surprising new assistant on his arrival. He also knew that if a mistake was to be found, his two fellow assistant clerks would unhesitatingly cover up for their senior and lay the blame at Elijah’s door. He was new, he was not Manx and as far as they were concerned he was not even English. He was an alien presence in the damp old building which housed the Customs Office and Harbour Master’s department in Castletown and both Watterson and Corlett would be delighted if he was dismissed.

With the work checked and the necessary corrections made, Elijah blotted his work and closed the ledger, then tidied the dusty office before he left. The office building was also officially the Harbour Master’s residence but Mr Charles Cannan and his wife were affluent enough to have their own house out towards Malew. The rooms above these offices were occupied by the widowed Mr Faragher, while the two younger clerks both lived with their families in the town.

Having no family of his own and certainly no friends on the island, Elijah had found lodgings in a narrow lane off Arbory Street. The house was a tiny fisherman’s cottage and the room was a poorly-lit box on the upper floor but Elijah was used to nothing more than a hammock and a sea chest aboard a Royal Navy frigate and found the space perfectly adequate. His landlady had been taken aback on first meeting him but had quickly warmed to him and meals were now included in the very reasonable rent.

Mrs Stowell was lonely and Elijah understood and sympathised. Her husband had been away for more than six months now, picked up by a press gang from a fishing boat. She had a young daughter which prevented her from taking regular employment, so she supported herself with casual work cleaning fish on the quay during the herring season and taking in mending to make up the shortfall during autumn and winter. She looked tired and careworn and she worried about what would happen if her husband did not return.

Elijah suspected she also worried about what might happen if he did return. Taking in a lodger was an acceptable way of earning an income, but he was sure there had been gossip about a married woman of thirty giving board and lodging to an unmarried man of twenty-five, with her husband at sea and no idea when he would be back. The child, who was five, gave some semblance of chaperonage, but Elijah doubted it was enough to silence everybody. What might save Breesha Stowell from being accused of misbehaviour was Elijah himself. He thought that even the most censorious of Castletown gossips would not imagine that a respectable woman would take a former African slave as a lover.

Letting himself out Elijah carefully locked the side door and stowed the key in one of the deep pockets of his waxed cape, pulling the hood up to cover his head. There was a sharp wind which blew the fine mist into his face, stinging his eyes and lips. He could taste salt, as though some of the moisture came from the sea. The tang brought memories of long years on the decks of Royal Navy ships; climbing the rigging, hauling in sail and building a life which he had naively thought would continue exactly as he had planned.

A fierce gust of wind and a moment’s lost concentration had brought it all crashing down. As a master’s mate and particular favourite of the Captain, he no longer had to spend much time on the rigging but Elijah liked to keep his hand in and had chosen to go up when squally weather off the coast of Dalmatia required emergency action. He had fallen part way down and could remember with terrifying clarity the moment he had expected to die.

Youth, strength and being a confident swimmer had saved his life and kept him afloat in the crashing waves until he was hauled into the launch and heard the Captain’s voice sounding frantic with worry, speaking his name.

Elijah was carried to the surgeon, shaking with pain, cold and sheer terror that he was about to lose what was clearly a broken leg. He had missed the deck entirely but his leg had struck a railing on the way down and he was in agony.

Captain Winterton remained beside him, holding firmly to his hand as the surgeon examined the leg and grumbled when forbidden to amputate. It was a bad break, but not hopeless, so he set the bone, gave dire warnings to the Captain and stalked back to his other patients. The Captain allowed him to go with a brief but convincing threat to throw him overboard if Elijah died, then had the master’s mate carried to his own cabin for his servant to take care of.

The break healed slowly and Dr Waterstone reluctantly admitted that it would not be necessary to amputate, but Elijah was in no way fit to resume his duties and would not be for some time. He had no family to go to and the Royal Navy had been his only home since he was twelve-years-old. Employment was essential but a ship was not the place for a man who needed crutches and then a cane to walk.

Captain Winterton had arranged transport and written letters. The position of assistant clerk in Castletown had been obtained through a former commanding officer and although it was not ideal, Elijah was more than able to do the job. He had been given an outstanding education in the Royal Navy, thanks largely to Winterton’s mentoring and there was nothing complicated about the work. Living ashore for the first time since childhood was a lot more difficult however. He was bored and lonely and desperately missed the feeling of a deck beneath his feet and the comradeship of his friends aboard the Wren. Above all, he missed Luke Winterton who had been his mentor and his adopted family for thirteen years and who had given him his surname when Elijah, born a plantation slave, had none of his own.

It was already dark as Elijah set off along the quay. It was only a few minutes walk to Mrs Stowell’s little house but she would not expect him yet. He had developed a routine over these past months of taking a morning and evening walk. At first he could barely make it to the end of the quay, leaning heavily on his cane and sweating with the pain. These days he did not need the cane, although he carried it anyway. He had gradually increased his walks and made them more difficult. Elijah had no intention of making a career in harbour management on this strange little island in the Irish Sea and he wanted to regain his strength.

He did not dislike the place and had found its inhabitants surprisingly kind. There were few Africans living on Mann and most of them were servants, probably former slaves, to the local gentry. He had struck up a casual friendship, based mainly on their shared childhood experiences of slavery, with a Jamaican runaway called Artie Smith; a burly man of around forty who worked in Moore’s boat yard after many years serving on merchantmen.

The people of Mann, for the most part, regarded Elijah with faint but benign curiosity. For a week or two some of the local children took to following him on his evening walks but they quickly lost interest though they would often wave, or call out a cheerful greeting as he passed. Men nodded as they came up from the boats, recognising him from the customs’ office and their wives would sometimes speak to him from doorsteps as they watched their children, swept their step or gossiped with their neighbours. They did not go so far as to invite him to supper, but if he stopped at the Glue Pot or the Anchor for a drink he was not shunned and nobody was rude to him. It was a life; not the life he wanted, but by no means unpleasant.

As part of his extended walk, Elijah had taken to walking out along the shore towards the port of Derbyhaven. From there he could watch the various small vessels coming and going. There were some fishing boats, though the main herring fleets sailed out of Peel Town and Ramsey. There were regular packet boats, merchant ships and privately owned boats. Occasionally there was a Royal Navy vessel, most of them brigs and cutters. Elijah knew the men of Castletown regarded them with wary suspicion, all too aware of the risk of being picked up by a press gang.

Elijah had a letter of exemption, though he knew his walking cane and his limp meant that any sensible press gang would leave him alone. Since he knew that not all press gangs were sensible or commanded by intelligent men, he carried the letter with him at all times and continued to use his cane even when he did not really need it. He was desperate to get back to the navy but had no intention of starting again at the bottom. He was a master’s mate, highly trained and well-thought of and when he returned, he wanted at least the same rating and possibly something more. Winterton’s Master was an older man who spoke sometimes of retirement and an easier job on shore with his wife. Elijah had every intention of being there when Mr Denton finally made up his mind to go.

Sunset was behind him above the hills to the west as he made his way steadily along the shore. During the summer months he had still been able to enjoy the glorious colour of the evening sky but the sun went down early now and in this weather he doubted he would have seen much of it anyway. He passed a row of humble cottages then, catching sight of a sail, scrambled painfully up the steep grassy slope of a bank to watch it passing. Uphill was still difficult but getting better. The bone had healed but his muscles had wasted and needed regular exercise to make them strong again. He needed to strengthen them, no matter how much it hurt because his Captain had promised, should he make a good enough recovery, that he could go back to the Wren; to go home, where he belonged.

This ship was a merchantman heading into Douglas Bay. Its pilot was keeping a wary distance from the rocky shore and Elijah, who had taken the time to study every chart and map he could find of these treacherous waters, approved the line he was taking. It must be almost impossible to see the shore in this misty darkness and there were rocks jutting out into the sea at several points along this coast.

Elijah thought more lighthouses were needed. Each of the towns had their own harbour lights. Castletown’s stood at the end of the quay but it was old and not always well tended. Derbyhaven did not really count as a town: it was more a huddle of buildings built to serve the port, but it boasted two good lights: one at the entrance to the harbour, and one on the south-west end of the breakwater. These at least would serve to guide ships into port and help others to recognise their location, but too many of the rocky hazards along the coast were unmarked.

When the ship had passed, Elijah slid down the bank onto the shore and walked on along the narrow strip of sand, going carefully to avoid stumbling on loose rocks. He could no longer see the edge of the water, though he could hear the whisper of the waves on the beach. Being this close to the sea and yet bound to the land was painful, but he was grateful that his Captain had managed to find him employment this close to the coast. The ebb and flow of the tide was like the beat of his own heart and he could not imagine living out of sight or sound of it.

He paused within sight of the jetty at Derbyhaven, watching the activity as porters completed the unloading of a small, square-rigged ship by lamplight. The lanterns glowed yellow through the mist. If the light had been better, Elijah would have walked down and got into conversation with the men. He had got to know a lot of them over the past months and found them a friendly crew who were always willing to share news over a tankard of ale. He thought they understood, with amused sympathy, his desperate need to stay connected with the maritime comings and goings of the island. It was a link, albeit a tenuous one, to the Wren.

The blurry glow from the lanterns made him realise that he should get back to Castletown before the light faded completely, making the walk difficult and possibly dangerous to a lame man. As he made his way back along the shore he could smell wood smoke and coal fires from the town, along with tar and sawn timbers from the boat yards. There was the faint enticing whiff of supper cooking from dozens of houses and cottages. He was sure he could smell smoked fish. It was a local speciality and he hoped Mrs Stowell had some for his supper. She often did, seeming to enjoy his delight in it.

The misty rain had finally eased and he turned back to look out over the sea where the very faint remains of daylight showed white capped waves which were gradually being whipped up by a rising wind. Unexpectedly he caught movement at the corner of his vision and turned sharply to see somebody else ahead of him on the path. A pale face hovered in the early darkness, wide eyes and well-shaped features, framed by the hood of a dark cloak with wisps of fair hair blowing faintly in the wind.

“Oh my goodness,” the woman said.

Elijah bit back a far more vulgar exclamation, having been just as startled as she was. Instead he gave a little laugh.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you there. You frightened the life out of me.”

“Thank goodness. I thought it was just me. I do apologise. I’d no idea anybody else would be on this path in this weather.”

Elijah kept his distance but made a bow. He realised immediately that a girl alone out here – and this was little more than a girl – had far more reason to be afraid than he had.

“Forgive me. I was taking my evening walk before supper. I don’t usually see anybody out here at this hour, unless it’s a wagon up from the docks. You’re perfectly safe. I was just about to leave. Have you…are you alone?”

“No,” the woman said determinedly. “My maid is quite close by.”

He understood. “Of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t being impertinent. I just wondered if she’d wandered back to town and you might want to walk alongside me.”

The girl was silent for a long moment. Then she said regally:

“I didn’t bring a maid with me. It grows dark so quickly now. I walked rather further out than I intended. I do not wish to inconvenience you, sir.”

“You won’t. I should go back before the light finally goes; I’m still a little lame. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Winterton; I’m a clerk in the customs’ office. Let’s get back to town and then, if you wish, I’ll escort you to your home.”

She consented to take his arm and they made their way cautiously along the uneven path, concentrating on their footing and not speaking. It was not until they had reached the first lights at the edge of Castletown proper that she said:

“That was kind of you, sir. My name is Gisbourne. I am a widow, currently residing on Queen Street with a companion. I was foolish to walk so far this late. I miss the light evenings. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome ma’am. Please allow me to walk back with you to your lodgings. It isn’t much out of my way.”

She hesitated and he half expected her to refuse. Before she could speak, however, something caught his eye out at sea and made him turn. He stared, wondering if he had imagined it. The wind was picking up, howling across the bay. Elijah peered through the mist and decided he was mistaken.

“There’s something out there. Is it a ship?”

He turned to her in surprise and realised that she too was staring out to sea. He looked back, but could see nothing but white-capped waves and drifting dark clouds. There was no moon tonight. The harbour was cluttered with fishing vessels and one or two of them had covered lanterns hanging up as their owners tidied up after working on their boats. Elijah thought they would all be in soon. It was not going to be a night for sharing a drink with friends on a boat.

“I don’t think so,” he said finally. “Though I thought I saw something for a moment. Come along, let’s get you home. Your people will be worrying.”

He hesitated before offering her his arm again. It was the polite thing to do on these uneven cobbled streets but he did not want to put her in an awkward position if she did not wish to be seen on his arm in the town. He could not work out her social status, though she was well-spoken, but even some of the fisher-girls might object to being seen walking arm-in-arm with him. Eventually he decided to take the chance and to his surprise she rewarded him with a little smile.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, making their way along the quay. Most people were already at home and the rest were hurrying to be so on this miserable evening, so nobody even glanced at them. Eventually she said:

“Have you been on the island long, Mr Winterton?”

“Four months only, ma’am.”

“I was wondering because I am surprised I have not met you. I have dined with Mr Cannan, the Harbour Master and have encountered Mr Faragher and your fellow clerks several times, but not you.”

“I’m not terribly sociable, ma’am.”

“That is a pity,” Mrs Gisbourne said. “I am finding Castletown society rather limited. You’re one of the more interesting gentlemen I have met so far.”

Elijah was startled into frankness. “I’m not really a gentleman, ma’am.”

“One would never know that from your manners, sir. Mr Cannan on the other hand has the status but not the behaviour. It is the first time a man has tried to squeeze my leg under the table with his wife present.”

Elijah was not sure if he was more shocked by the behaviour or by her talking of it. “He did what?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I think I spend too much time alone but I didn’t intend to embarrass you. Please forget it.”

“It’s definitely just as well I didn’t receive an invitation to that particular party,” Elijah said shortly. “I might have disgraced myself and proved them all right.”

She gave a ripple of laughter. “Thank you. I appreciate your championship, even from a distance. Mr Winterton – thank you. I’m so glad we frightened each other out on a windy shore. I have enjoyed your company.”

“I’m glad too, ma’am. Here we are. Goodnight.”

He watched until the door opened, showing a surprised looking maid framed in lamplight. When she was safely inside he set off back to his lodgings and supper. He realised that he was walking with a lighter step and smiling a little. The brief encounter had unaccountably cheered him up. He did not think he would have occasion to speak to Mrs Gisbourne again but it had been nice to have a conversation about something other than paperwork, merchant shipping or the iniquities of the press gang.

***

Katherine Gisbourne listened to the scolding voice of her paid companion with half an ear as she took off her wet cloak and went to change for the evening meal. She did not bother to dress formally as the table would consist of only herself and Mrs Blake. With no guests, she donned a simple white muslin, with a warm shawl because the evenings were chilly and the rented house was draughty. She had one black gown and a lavender silk evening dress to indicate her mourning status, but unless she was invited out she seldom wore them. Nobody knew her here so nobody would care.

The anonymity was lonely but also a huge relief. Katherine had fled to this blustery little island in desperation during the early months of her widowhood. She had heard of the house being available to rent through her husband’s man of business who also acted for its absentee owner, a widowed sea captain. He had spoken of it in jest when Katherine had spoken of wanting time alone, a long way from family and friends and the obligation to share her grief. Mr Bell had spoken of it scornfully when she had asked if he might know of some quiet place where she could retire alone for a while. He had dismissed her request as feminine vapours and assured her heartily that she would feel quite differently once she was at home in Yorkshire.

Katherine had made the arrangements herself, even taking the trouble to hire a respectable female to accompany her. There were various cousins whom she might have asked but instead she had scanned the advertisements in the London newspapers and employed Mrs Blake, a quietly spoken widow in her late thirties who seemed utterly bewildered by Katherine’s behaviour, but too relieved at well-paid employment to complain. Katherine felt a little sorry for the woman at being marooned in this draughty little house on the Isle of Mann with staff whose accent she could barely understand, but it did not deter her. She was running away from home and could let nothing get in her way.

The reality had been nothing like she had imagined, but the difficulties of coping with setting up her household in an unfamiliar place, with none of the support she was used to, had kept her busy. It was only now, almost three months on, that she was beginning to realise how lonely she was. She had made one or two acquaintances. Several ladies had called on her and she had been invited to a number of select parties considered suitable for her mourning status. Other than that she was alone apart from Mrs Blake, free to spend her time as she wished. It was terrifying. It was also liberating.

“I made an interesting acquaintance this evening on my walk,” she said to her companion as they sat down to eat. “I walked out along the shore rather further than I should have and he kindly escorted me home.”

Mrs Blake gave a snort. “I’m surprised you weren’t blown off that path, ma’am. I was at the baker’s earlier and he tells me we can expect much worse than this once winter comes. If you wish to stay so long of course.”

Katherine applied herself to a rather good beefsteak pie. “I have told you my intentions, Mrs Blake. If my plans don’t suit you…”

“No,” the older woman said quickly. “No, ma’am. I’m very well-suited. At least, I would have been better suited in London, but I’d like to stay if you’re satisfied with me.”

“I am.” Katherine smiled. “You’ve been very brave about it, Mrs Blake.”

“I just thought that you would wish to go home for Christmas. To be with your family. I’m sure they have invited you.”

“My family thinks I should go home to live with them,” Katherine said.

“They sound very kind,” Mrs Blake said wistfully. Katherine wondered, not for the first time, how difficult her companion’s own widowhood had been with no apparent family to support her either emotionally or financially.

“They are kind and I love them dearly,” Katherine said. “It’s just that I can’t. Not yet.”

“Grief should be shared,” Mrs Blake said gently.

“I can’t,” Katherine said again.

There was a little silence then the other woman said chattily:

“So tell me about this gentleman, ma’am. Who was he?”

Katherine fought a brief battle with her better self and won. “He was not really a gentleman, I suppose, though you would never know it. He works as a clerk at the customs’ office and…”

Mrs Blake stiffened. “Not the African?” she said in shocked tones.

Katherine gave her a look. “I believe so,” she said frostily. “You know of him?”

“Mrs Cannan spoke of him a little when we dined there. It seems there was some discussion about whether he could be invited to dine when the other clerks do so. So awkward for her. Gentlemen don’t understand these things.”

“For once I am with the gentlemen,” Katherine said. “He was very polite and well-spoken, though his accent was different. I rather liked it.”

“He cannot be a suitable acquaintance, my dear.”

“He’s probably a lot more suitable than one or two others I’ve met recently, but let us not quarrel over that. I doubt I’ll meet him again.”

***

Busy with a flurry of paperwork over some suspicious activity which made Mr Faragher wonder if a smuggling vessel was trying its luck in Manx waters, Elijah forgot all about the ship he thought he had seen struggling around Langness Point. There was no longer much organised smuggling done in the Isle of Mann, but it was not unknown for a local fishing boat to take an opportunity to run in goods on some dark night, by way of supplementing a meagre income.

Elijah realised that the locals, including the other clerks, thought little of it and he wondered if Watterson and Corlett, or possibly even Mr Faragher would not be above accepting some illicit brandy or rum as an incentive to look the other way. Elijah did not share their views, though he was careful not to say so. He knew that some smugglers dealt in more than luxury goods and were a valuable source of local intelligence to their French counterparts, as well as a means of transferring English gold to the enemy coffers. As a navy man he loathed the practice.

He decided on this occasion, after scrutinising the log-book and other paperwork taken from the Magnolia, that he was being over-cautious and that any gaps were due to incompetence rather than criminality and there would be no need to send a message to the revenue service. He gathered the papers together, tied them into a neat bundle and set them aside to be returned to the boat’s indignant owner.

The wilder weather had eased for a few days but as September drifted into October it worsened again and Elijah found himself curtailing his evening walks on several occasions. When he did make it out, he tried hard not to watch for the slender figure in the dark cloak but could not help it. He did not see her and presumed her companion had managed to convince her to remain at home for reasons of both safety and propriety.

Halfway through the second week he was bored and restless, missing the exercise and worrying about losing strength in his leg if he did not continue to exercise it regularly. Eventually he gave in and took himself to a dim little shop on Malew Street which sold both new and second-hand clothing to the local seafaring men. Elijah had been saving his money as much as possible in case he needed it for travel to wherever he might be able to join his ship once he was fit again but he needed better protection against this lashing rain and biting wind and he did not want to wear his uniform around town. He came away with a warm knitted tunic, some good woollen trousers and thick stockings and having found the prices surprisingly low, replenished his small stock of shirts and underclothing at half the price he would have paid in an English port.

Fully equipped, he donned his waxed cape, pulled a knitted hat over his short curly hair and set off after work down the shore path. Winter was fast approaching and it was already dark as he left the customs’ building. It had rained earlier in the day and the streets were still wet, cobbles shining ahead of Elijah’s closed lantern. He had bought it at the chandler’s, along with a supply of oil and hoped that carefully used, it would make it possible for him to stay out later.

The wind was so strong that the lantern swung madly in his hand, but it was a good design, meant for small boats, and it did not break. Elijah fought his way into the wind, reflecting that he would probably move a lot faster on the way back. The tide was in and huge waves dashed against the low rocks, surging up over the high bank and dousing him with cold salt spray. It reminded him of wild nights on deck, fighting to bring in sail in an unexpected storm and he lifted his face into it, laughing in sheer exhilaration.

He met nobody on the path tonight and was not surprised. Nobody would be out sailing for pleasure in this and all sensible masters would have found somewhere safe to anchor and weather the storm. He was alone with the wind and the sea and he loved it. Almost for the first time, he was beginning to feel himself strong again and he wondered if he was ready to write to Captain Winterton and ask that his necessary but painful exile be brought to an end. He wondered where they were now, and how long it would take a letter to reach them. He thought that he might go back to his dim little room and write it tonight.

Elijah reached Derbyhaven dock; quiet this evening with workers and travellers safe at home. He stood for a while on the quay, tasting the salt spray on his lips until he began to feel cold and realised it was time to go back. There was stew for supper and he had promised to watch little Morag while her mother did an evening shift at the Glue Pot. He had grown fond of the child and would miss her when he left.

With the wind at his back he made better time on his return and he walked quickly, allowing it to push him along. He was enjoying it so much that he remained on the shore as he came into Castletown, crossing the Silverburn by the rickety old wooden footbridge and wandering along a little way towards Scarlett.

Remembering his child minding duties made him stop eventually and he turned reluctantly up towards the town. He had barely made it off the shore path however when he was surprised to see a figure in a long dark cloak hurrying down towards him. Looking up he realised that he had turned up from the beach directly opposite the narrow house occupied by Mrs Gisbourne and it was the lady herself approaching him.

Elijah stopped and bowed, feeling a little lift of happiness. “Mrs Gisbourne. A happy coincidence, ma’am. I hope you are not just setting out on your walk. It really isn’t…”

He stopped abruptly, taking in the alarm on her face. She caught hold of his arm without ceremony.

“Thank God you are here. I had no idea what to do, but then I saw you walking up and recognised you immediately. Mr Winterton, there’s a ship in trouble. I think it may be grounded on some rocks. I was at my bedroom window and can see it clearly. There are lights – I think they’re trying to signal for help.”

Elijah whirled, staring out to sea. He could see nothing but the white foam of the raging surf but that meant nothing. The houses were not particularly tall but she would have had a far better view from up there.

“Forgive me but I need to see for myself.”

“Of course. This way.”

The house was warm inside with the mouth-watering smell of food cooking. A woman, presumably the widow’s companion, hovered in a doorway looking anxious. Mrs Gisbourne admonished her sharply to stay where she was and led the way up a curved stairway to a short landing with several doors leading off it and another, smaller stair going on up to the top.

“Up here. It’s where the servants sleep but there are windows and we’ll get a better view.”

He followed her at speed into a neat plain room. She struggled with a rusty iron catch on the small window and he took it from her and forced it open. They stood side by side, gasping at the sudden blast of cold air and she pointed.

“Look.”

He could see it immediately, a dark shape above the boiling inky waves. From this distance he could hear nothing but there were clearly lights and as he watched he saw what looked like a flare shooting up into the night. He was surprised he did not hear it and puzzled as to why they were not making more noise. Even merchant ships usually carried some kind of gun to fire signals in an emergency. There was no point in standing around speculating. Elijah slammed the window shut and turned to her.

“Thank God you saw it. I can’t think why none of the houses up on that road haven’t called for help yet, but God willing we can do so now. Look stay here. I’m going to run to Mr Faragher and then up to the Cannan house. They’ll know what to do and will probably have some idea what ship it might be.”

“I want to come.”

“You’ll slow me down.” Elijah reached out and took her hand, squeezing it a little to take the sting from his words. “I’ll come back and tell you when I can. Thank you ma’am. You’ve saved lives this night.”

The next hour was a frantic blur of running from one place to another, delivering messages and urging speed. Mr Cannan seemed unwilling to believe it, but he was at dinner with several local gentlemen and one in particular, a badly scarred man with an air of unconscious authority that screamed former officer to Elijah, very quickly took command. Mr Young rattled off a series of orders which sent men running and when finally Elijah had time to breathe he had the relieved sense that help would be mobilised and that there would be some attempt to reach the stranded ship. He found himself briefly alone back at the customs’ office and sat in his regular chair for a while, calming his jangling nerves.

Eventually he decided that even if he could not take part in the rescue he could walk out to see what was happening and got up, reaching for his cape and searching for the door key in his pocket. Before he got any further the door opened and three men entered. Mr Cannan and Mr Faragher were grim faced and angry. Mr Young’s expression was hard to read but that may have been because his scar immobilised one side of his face.

“So what the bloody hell was this about, Winterton?” Faragher barked furiously. “Is this some kind of practical joke? Half the men of Castletown out of their beds and we were beginning to wake up Derbyhaven as well and for what? Nothing, man.”

Elijah stared at him in utter bewilderment. “Nothing? You mean we were too late, sir? The ship has gone?”

“Gone? It was never bloody there, boy,” Cannan roared. “Christ, I should have known better than to let Hugh Kelly talk me into employing a half-literate African slave with an over-active imagination and look at the result. You’ve made a fool of me before the entire town and…”

Elijah lost his temper. “I am both fully literate and a free man, sir,” he shouted back. “I do not understand. I saw that ship from Mrs Gisbourne’s window with my own eyes. Whatever has happened was not deliberate, but I will not hear Captain Kelly insulted and…”

“Nor will I,” Mr Young said with quiet authority. “It’s been a frustrating evening, Mr Cannan, that’s for sure, but I would be surprised if Mr Winterton here intended any ill. I can see that you’re upset. Why don’t you get back to your guests and your wife. Please give my apologies to mine, though she’s used to me by now. Mr Faragher you’re tired and must be wanting your bed. Let me talk to Mr Winterton here and we’ll see if we can work out what went wrong. Goodnight gentlemen.”

They moved away eventually, grumbling quietly but looking forward to moving on with their evening. Mr Young waited until the room was empty then looked at Elijah. Elijah looked back defiantly, ready to punch the next man that insulted him. Young gave a very faint smile.

“I have been told that you’re a navy man, Winterton.”

“Master’s mate aboard the Wren, sir.”

“Under a captain who’s name you bear.” Young’s smile widened. The effect on his scarred face was slightly alarming. “Luke Winterton and the Wren have made quite a name for themselves.”

“He allowed me to take his name when my slavery ended, sir.”

“I was at Trafalgar and then employed by the revenue service until I married. I’m not from Mann either, though my wife is Manx to the core. It takes a while for them to get used to us.”

“I do not think they will ever get used to me, sir.”

Young indicated the appalling ruin of his face. “They’re still not used to me either but we’re working on it. Climb down off your high horse, Winterton. I don’t suppose you’re intending to stay here are you?”

“I intend to return to my ship as soon as it may be arranged, sir.” Belatedly, Elijah realised this man was being very civil and rather kind. “I am sorry. I’m angry. I did see this thing.”

“I believe you saw something, but I’ve been out on the shore. There’s nothing there. You spoke of a Mrs Gisbourne. I don’t know the lady. Could you introduce me?”

The next hour was a blur of embarrassed misery. Katherine Gisbourne was rigidly polite to the former naval officer and Elijah could not fault his respectful treatment of her, but he could see that she shared his fury at being disbelieved. She took Young up to the window and explained what they had seen. Young listened seriously, asked sensible questions and did his best to soothe the lady’s annoyance.

When they were outside again in the blustery cold of the street, Young pulled his coat up around his neck and shivered.

“I’m sorry, Winterton. I wish I could do more. I’m not sure what happened. It must have been some weird trick of the light. Look don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with Cannan and Faragher for you. From what you’ve told me, this posting is only temporary anyway. The way you moved tonight in this crisis, I think you’re more than ready to go back to sea. Write to your Captain and if you need any further help, here’s my card.  And…it might seem impertinent, but what’s the story with Mrs Gisbourne? What in God’s name is she doing here?”

Elijah realised he had no idea and it bothered him. “I don’t know sir. We’re mere acquaintances. Running away, perhaps?”

Young gave an unexpected smile. “Now that I do understand. Say no more. I’ll ask my wife to call on her to make sure she’s all right. Don’t fret about this, Winterton. I absolutely believe you acted in good faith. If they give you any trouble, send me a message. I might be new to the island but I’ve fairly good connections. Goodnight.”

***

On the day after the wholly imaginary shipwreck, Katherine endured several infuriating interviews with men who had already decided that she was an over-imaginative female who had lured the customs clerk into sharing her fantasy. Mr Cannan, who did not like her, went so far as to suggest that she might have lied about the entire thing to gain attention. Halfway through their conversation, Katherine suddenly remembered that she did not have to be polite to this man and threw him out.

Afterwards she went up to her room, telling her anxious companion that she needed to rest. She was not at all tired but she was weary of Mrs Blake’s flustered attempts to make her feel better. Nothing was likely to make her feel better after Cannan’s humiliating questions. Hovering behind them was a hint of unpleasant curiosity about her acquaintance with Elijah Winterton.

Katherine wished they had more of an acquaintance in reality because Winterton was the only person she wanted to see. He alone had seen what she had seen and believed what she told him. She was anxious that his quick action might have cost him his job, or at least a severe reprimand, and she felt very guilty.

Knowing that he might be in trouble, she did not expect to see Winterton again and was astonished when her companion appeared in the parlour immediately after dinner to announce a caller. Mrs Blake’s face was a picture of frozen disapproval and she frowned heavily when Katherine put down her embroidery immediately and stood up.

“Mr Winterton?”

“I told him this was no hour to be calling on a lady and suggested he return tomorrow. Not that I think he should be calling at all, ma’am. He is not…”

“Where is he?” Katherine interrupted. “You have not sent him away?”

“I did my best but he insisted that I inform you that he was here. In fact he refused to leave. He is waiting outside.”

“In this weather?” Katherine said indignantly. “Bring him through immediately.”

“Ma’am, you cannot. People will know. The maids will talk and it will be all over the island that…”

“I do not care if the news reaches the Emperor of France, Mrs Blake. I am tired of being treated like a child. Please show Mr Winterton in and then you may leave us. Since you have made it perfectly plain you neither believe my story or trust my intelligence, you have no place in this conversation.”

Elijah Winterton looked cold and tired and a little surprised at finding himself in a cosy parlour with a crackling fire and a decanter of Spanish sherry with two glasses set out on a table. Mrs Blake closed the door with a disapproving click and Katherine noticed with irritation that she had not asked the maid to take his cape or hat. She took them herself, almost pushed him into a chair before the fire and stopped his protests by handing him a glass of sherry.

“Please don’t argue with me, Mr Winterton. I spent an hour being alternately patronised and insulted by Mr Cannan earlier and it was quite enough. I am not sure if he suspects me of being a deliberate liar or a hysterical female subject to nervous disorders.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. What did you…I mean how did you…”

“I threw him out,” Katherine said crisply. Even the memory of it made her feel better. “He had gone quite red in the face, and was halfway through interrogating me about my family. Who was my husband, who is my father, why am I here alone.”

Winterton looked satisfyingly angry. “It seems to me, ma’am, that’s none of his business.”

“That is so true,” Katherine said. “The trouble is, I have not been accustomed to saying such things to gentlemen. I was such a good child and have been such a well-behaved woman. I learned everything a lady should know, never asked any awkward questions, bowed to every rule of polite feminine behaviour and made an excellent marriage at exactly the right moment. My parents were so proud of me.”

“If I had a daughter like you, ma’am, I’d be proud too.”

“Well you should not be,” Katherine said shortly. “I have a sister. She is two years younger than I am and did nothing right. She fought and argued her way through childhood, which meant that she was allowed to share my brothers’ lessons and is far better educated than I am. She was wilful and fiercely independent and so beautiful that it hurt to look at her. All through our growing years, all she had to do was smile and everyone around her fell at her feet. And at times I almost hated her for that.”

Winterton looked utterly bewildered and Katherine did not blame him. She had no idea why she was saying this, but telling him could do no harm at all since he would never meet any of the people involved. He was a safe confidante and Katherine realised she desperately needed one of those.

“I’m not sure I would have liked her as much as I like you, ma’am.”

Katherine felt silly tears at his kindness. She blinked them back. “Yes you would. She’s lovely. She was the best sister in the world and we had a wonderful time growing up. She married young and my parents didn’t approve. It didn’t go well. He was a soldier and he was killed but she has remarried and my parents are delighted. She seems very happy. She has children now.”

“Do you hear from her?”

“Not that often. We should write more but we drifted apart. She is in Spain with her second husband. She has spent these years doing so much and I have done…nothing.”

“That can’t be true, ma’am.”

“Yes it is. I married a man whose life consisted of ledgers and letter writing and seeking the next Government post. We lived in London, went to every party where he might meet a useful connection and I had no real friends. We had no children, we had no conversation once the wedding was over and all the empty promises he made to me vanished in a faint cloud of indifference. I realise now that I had constructed a romance based on nothing. He was not bad or unkind. When he died I tried desperately to find grief. All I could find was guilt, and a sense of hopelessness. I fled here because I was worried that if I went home, my parents would surround me with love and kindness and then find me another man just like him.”

Winterton said nothing for a while. He finished his sherry and Katherine topped up both glasses. She realised she would not mind finishing the bottle. Eventually he stirred.

“Why did you tell me this now?”

The question surprised her. “Oh. I think because of my sister. I have thought of her a lot recently. It occurred to me that she might be the one person I could really talk to about this. The one person I could trust. Then I found myself in a room with Mr Cannan, looking at his smug, round, red face and realising that he thought it was perfectly acceptable to be rude about you and to insult me. And I had a sudden thought.”

“Which was?”

“What would Nan do?” Katherine sipped her sherry, trying to do so in a ladylike manner. “And then I did it. The results were extraordinarily satisfying. I don’t think he will call on me again.”

To her surprise, Winterton laughed. Their irrelevant conversation seemed to have made him more relaxed and he was no longer perched on the edge of his chair. Katherine thought wistfully that it would be so much easier to negotiate the world if more men were like this pleasant, ordinary young clerk whose background was anything but ordinary. He set his glass down on the table and studied her from serious dark eyes.

“I shouldn’t really have called on you, ma’am, but I was worried about you. I’m sorry this happened. Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes, of course. I was more concerned about you, sir. That unpleasant man is just the kind of arrogant bully who might dismiss you. Do you think he will?”

“No. I got this post through a local gentleman who was captain of the first ship I ever served on. He and Captain Winterton are friends. Captain Kelly is an important man locally and Mr Cannan won’t want to get on the wrong side of him, especially as I’ll be leaving soon anyway.”

“You’re going back to your ship?”

“Yes. I’m ready. As Mr Young pointed out, sprinting around town chasing up rescue boats for a ghost ship wasn’t a problem for me. I’ve just finished writing to Captain Winterton. It will probably take a couple of months to arrange everything and I’ll have to wait to catch a ship going out to the Adriatic, but there are always supply ships and packet boats. I hope to be back with him early next year.”

She noticed the unconscious phrasing which made his close relationship with his Captain very plain and found herself wishing she could meet the navy officer who inspired such admiration and loyalty in a man like Elijah Winterton. She also suddenly noticed something else he had said.

“Ghost ship?”

“Is that what I said?”

“Yes.” Katherine stared at him but he gave no further explanation. She thought some of his earlier discomfort had returned. “Is that what you think this was, Mr Winterton.”

“No, of course not. How could it be? As Mr Young said it must have been some strange trick of the light.”

“What light?” Katherine demanded. “It was as dark as Hades out there. The only lights I could see were from the houses along the seafront and from that ship, way out on the rocks. There wasn’t even a moon.”

“I don’t know, ma’am. Perhaps some reflection from lights on the quay?”

He sounded both defensive and slightly desperate and Katherine knew he badly wanted her to drop the subject. She realised she could not. The experience had shaken her. She had never thought herself particularly imaginative and she had spent all night lying awake trying to come up with some reasonable explanation as to how two rational adults had seen something which was invisible to everyone else.

“It was too far out,” she said eventually. “I’m sorry. I can see you don’t want to talk about this. It’s just what you said…is that what you really believe? A ghost?”

“Who believes in such things, ma’am?”

“Clearly somebody did at some point in history, Mr Winterton, or there wouldn’t be so much written about them. This is a very superstitious island, I’ve discovered. Did you know that many people here still believe in fairies?”

“The little people? Or are you talking about the fynoderee?” He gave a slight smile at her surprise. “My landlady tells stories to her little girl. I enjoy them too. Back on the plantation, my mother used to tell me all kinds of strange tales that she remembered from her girlhood in an African village. I’m very comfortable with ghost stories but I realised very quickly that many people aren’t.”

She was temporarily distracted by his casual mention of his former slavery and then realised suddenly that there was something very personal for him in this matter. He was clearly not keen to talk about it and she felt guilty for pressing him, but two of them had seen that stranded ship and she needed to know.

“Have you ever seen a ghost, Mr Winterton?”

He did not speak for a long time, but stared into the fire, apparently lost in some memory. She was just about to repeat the question when he looked up.

“I think so. And now I might have seen another. That’s too many for one man, don’t you think?”

Katherine met his eyes, hoping she could manage to convey how grateful she was for his honesty. “Not for a man like you, Mr Winterton. I think you’re a man who is able to believe what he sees and hears, even if that’s difficult. I can understand why your Captain values you so much.”

He smiled then, and it lit up his rather serious face. “Ma’am, he’s been looking after me since I was twelve years old. Sometimes I think he still sees me that way. Look, it’s not a pretty story but I’ll tell you if you like.”

“I’d be grateful. This seems very strange to me.”

“It’s not going to get any less strange with this tale, ma’am. I don’t want to go into too much detail- it’s upsetting. I was twelve years old when I arrived on the Royal Navy frigate the Herne. I was a born a plantation slave and my mother had died. Before you ask, I never even knew my father’s name and given how light my skin is, I never wanted to.”

Katherine felt herself blush a little and wished she had not. He must have noticed but made no comment.

“Losing Ma nearly broke me. It also set me free. I could never have taken the risk if she’d still been alive. It was talked about in the slave compounds that if you could get yourself taken on by a Royal Navy ship, you’d be legally free. That’s how I joined HMS Herne.”

Katherine listened as he talked of his first weeks aboard ship. Unconsciously, his voice had taken on a storytelling tone and he told the tale well. She was so interested in this insight into the workings of a Royal Navy frigate and the relationships between officers and crew that she was almost shocked when the story shifted abruptly to describe his involvement with a troubled crew member who had eventually killed himself.

“That’s horrible. You were so young.”

“I’ve never forgotten it. But not really because of poor Reid. Later I found out he was a wanted mutineer and it was assumed that he’d committed suicide from guilt. But it was more than that. He’d been seeing things. The image of a man he’d murdered. It drove him to his death but the thing was…I saw it too.”

Katherine caught her breath. She sat staring at him in mute horror. After a moment, he reached for the decanter and refilled their glasses.

“Thank you for not asking if I am sure that I didn’t imagine it.”

“I’m hardly likely to, sir. I’ve heard that question more than enough today. But I do have questions.”

“Please ask.”

“Were you sure back then? What you’d seen? And did anyone believe you?”

He thought about it and sighed. “I’ve always been sure. And no, they didn’t believe me, though Captain Winterton was kind enough to pretend that he did. They all thought I was an over-imaginative boy who’d survived an appalling childhood then a dangerous escape and was now having to adjust to a whole new life. And said like that, it makes sense. But I know what I saw then and I know how furious I was that I couldn’t make them believe me. And I had exactly the same feeling last night and today. They either think I’m a liar or I’m crazy. Perhaps both. And I’m neither.”

“You’re neither,” Katherine agreed. “Unless I am too. Because that ship was there.”

“There was no ship there. Mr Young even took a boat out today, given that the weather had calmed a lot. There was no wreckage. Nothing.”

Katherine studied him consideringly. “Not now, anyway. But there must have been once.”

He stopped, his glass almost at his lips, then set it down quickly. “Do you mean…?”

“I am not an expert in hauntings, Mr Winterton. But this ghost of yours aboard the Herne made sense. The man was a murderer and his victim haunted him. Whatever you think of the supernatural, that began with a real event that could be traced.”

His expression had changed, his interest clearly caught. “And if you and I are not going mad and we did see something out there…”

“Then there must have been a ship caught on those rocks once. Just not last night.”

“It could have been at any time, though. Beyond living memory.”

“Perhaps. My ignorance of ships of all kind means that I can’t say. But you should be able to; you’re a navy man. Did anything about that ship strike you as odd when we stood at the window looking at it?”

“No,” Winterton said slowly. “At least…yes. I mean of course. I couldn’t hear it. They’d sent up flares. I could hear the wind and the rain and the sound of the waves crashing over the sea wall down there. But sound carries and we should have been able to hear something.”

“What about the ship?”

He seemed to be visualising it, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he said:

“It wasn’t that big. It’s difficult because one of the masts was down –  the aft mast, I think. Which also looked like the main mast. It must have been a brig.”

“A historic one?”

He was shaking his head, fully engaged now. “Definitely not. That design is used everywhere to this day. In the navy she’d be a fifth-rater but I don’t think this was a navy ship. I don’t think she had the guns. But those square-rigged brigs are used as merchant ships, particularly for the coastal trade. A man I served with on the Wren used to crew coal boats up and down the English coast.”

“So we are looking for a wrecked merchant ship, probably within the last twenty years?”

He looked up at her with a quick smile. “Make that fifty. Though I think you’ll be right, it will be more recent than that. I hope so anyway, because I think I’ll have to start by asking a lot of questions of the locals.”

“I can do the same. Since the gentlemen already think I am an empty-headed, over-imaginative female I shall be very wide-eyed and ask a great many stupid questions.”

“You wouldn’t fool me like that, ma’am.”

She was pleasantly aware of the admiration in his voice. “Thank you. I am not as well-educated as my younger sister but I don’t think I’m stupid. Though I’ve never really been asked to put that to the test. I am rather looking forward to doing so.”

He smiled and rose, leaving the rest of his sherry untouched. “I should go before your poor companion has a fit of the vapours about the amount of time you’ve been closeted alone with a former slave who works as a lowly customs clerk. Are you sure you want to help with this? Because whatever we find out, I don’t think they’ll believe us anyway.”

“Neither do I,” Katherine said, getting up. “But we will know what really happened and I think that will make me feel rather better. Besides, I am very curious. Do you happen to know which rocks those are, by the way?”

“No, and it would help. I wonder if I can find a boat to take me out there, if the weather improves? My landlady might be able to find someone, though it will cost me.”

“I will pay, providing I can accompany you.”

He looked astonished. “Ma’am, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“First of all because a small boat out there at this time of year isn’t without risk. And secondly, because you can’t be seen out with me in public, especially without a chaperone.”

“What utter nonsense. I am an adult woman with a very respectable fortune and I can do whatever I like. If my sister can nurse wounded men in the middle of a battle, which I’m told she does, I can risk a little discomfort in a very good cause.”

“Well…let me see what I can find, then.”

Katherine walked into the hall with him and waited as the shocked maid retrieved his cape and hat. She noticed with grim amusement that the girl’s disapproval melted when Winterton gave her a warm smile as he thanked her. Betsy retreated to the kitchen regions blushing very prettily and he turned to Katherine.

“I’ll let you know about the boat. I might not be able to find a man willing to do it.”

“And I will begin making enquiries about past shipwrecks. It may enliven a very boring dinner party with the Rector on Tuesday. Thank you, Mr Winterton. I feel better.”

“So do I. Ma’am…what do you think your sister would make of this? If she was here.”

Katherine thought about it and grinned. “I cannot imagine Nan encountering a ghost. She is the most practical girl in the world and would probably tell it to go away and stop annoying her. But the mystery? She would be rubbing her hands together and rolling up her sleeves to help. In some ways I wish she was here. In others, I’m glad she’s not. She would take over and manage the whole thing and I would let her.”

“Well I think you’re more like her than you realise, ma’am. I’m certainly letting you manage me. Good night.”

***

It was almost a week before he found a man willing to take him out to inspect what might possibly have been the site of a previous shipwreck. By then, Elijah had started to believe that he really must have imagined the whole thing. He had thought it would be relatively easy. Mariners loved to talk and most of the families in Castletown and the surrounding villages had lived there for generations. Shipwrecks were not uncommon on the hazardous rocky shores of the Isle of Mann.

He was offered shipwrecks in plenty and reflected that the number and severity of the tragedies he heard about would have put a less experienced man off ever going to sea again. He was told about every possible disaster, from two men drowned in a rowing boat the previous year to the loss of all hands when the Derbyhaven packet went down in a storm fifteen years earlier. Some of the older fishermen enjoyed his interest so much they invited him to join them in the nearest ale house.

Elijah bought his round, listened to the stories and told one or two of his own from his years with the Wren. He could sense that they were warming to him now that they knew more about him and he wondered if some of his isolation since he arrived on the island had been of his own making. He enjoyed the convivial evening and promised to return another day but he was none the wiser about the mysterious shipwreck. A brief consultation with Katherine told him she was having no more luck than he was.

Mrs Stowell introduced him to her cousin Jack Shimmin, a sturdy fisherman of eighteen who did not blink when informed that he was required to ferry not only the customs clerk but a lady out to inspect the rocky shore. Elijah had prepared a complicated story and discovered he did not need it at all. Shimmin was monumentally uninterested in why they wanted to go sailing on a calm but freezing October morning so long as he was paid.

There was a rare frost on the grass when Elijah collected Katherine Gisbourne. He ran his eyes over her clothing and approved the warm lined cloak, woollen gloves and surprisingly sturdy boots. He thought he had been subtle but as they made their way along the stone quay, she said:

“Did you think I would arrive wearing my summer muslin, sir?”

Elijah felt his face grow warm. “No of course not. I just didn’t think you’d have anything suitable.”

“They’re riding boots. Not appropriate for fashionable London I’m afraid, but I was raised in the wilds of Yorkshire and I hate having cold feet. The cloak as well. My stepmother always taught us to dress properly for any occasion and she didn’t mean it in purely a social sense.”

The boat was small enough for a man to manage alone, with four oars and a sail. Elijah settled Katherine on the bench and took the second pair of oars without asking. As the boat cut smoothly through the water, their taciturn companion gave what sounded as though it might be a grunt of approval.

“Navy man, were you?”

“I am a navy man. I’m going back soon.”

There was another grunt. “Well if you run into that useless bastard Stowell when you get there, tell him to get back here and look after his wife and child.”

Elijah could not help smiling. He glanced at Katherine but as far as he could see she was not upset by Shimmin’s language. She looked rather amused.

“The navy’s fairly big, but I’ll keep an eye out. He was pressed though wasn’t he? Not really his fault.”

Shimmin’s snort was derisive this time. It seemed to be his favourite means of communication. “That idle bugger trips over a press gang more easily than any other man on this island and never sends a penny home in pay. She’d starve if it weren’t for the family. And your rent. She says you’ve been good to her and the brat and given her no trouble. Hold up. We’ll take it by sail from here.”

That seemed to be the end of Shimmin’s conversation. Elijah sensed that it had been something he had wanted to say and now that he had said it there would be no further need to talk. Elijah had wondered what Mrs Stowell’s extended family had thought of her decision to take in such an unusual lodger and he was glad and a little touched that they had apparently decided to approve. He worried about how she would manage when he left.

The wind picked up considerably away from shore. Elijah watched Shimmin arrange his sail with practiced skill and tried to hide how much he yearned to do it himself. There was no comparison between what was little more than a one-man jolly boat and the beautiful lines of a fast frigate but he had been on shore for so long that any form of sail would have satisfied him. He was glad to see how easily Shimmin handled the craft and turned his attention to Katherine.

She was looking around her in apparent enjoyment. “I cannot believe how fast we’re moving. I’ve never been on a boat like this before. Well apart from a rowing boat on a lake of course, which is not at all the same thing.”

“You’re not feeling nauseous?” Elijah asked anxiously.

“Not at all. It’s exhilarating. I love it.”

Reassured, he twisted around on his seat to face her. “I don’t know these waters at all, but Shimmin says he’s going to take us along the coast towards Scarlett Point then across the mouth of the bay and back round the Langness Peninsula. That will take us close to where we want to go. If the weather changes suddenly, and we know it does that a lot here, we’ll have to go straight back in. I’m not risking your safety.”

“Would you, if you were alone?”

“It would depend on how bad it got. I’d take more chances for myself than for you but…”

“We’ll go back when I say,” Shimmin said unexpectedly. “This boat’s my living. Not risking it for either of you two.”

Elijah turned to glare at him but Katherine gave a splutter of laughter. “Quite right, Mr Shimmin. I’m grateful you agreed to take us at all.”

The younger man shot her a surprised glance. “You’re paying me,” he said simply. After a moment he added generously:

“And you’re no trouble, I must say.”

Elijah could think of nothing to say. He shot her a glance and realised she was trying hard not to giggle. He looked away, firmly suppressing his own laughter.

They swept briskly along the coast, the spray settling in a fine sheen on the dark wool of her cloak. She was looking out over the dull grey-green waves, capped with white. Elijah did not think it was a particularly appealing view but she looked relaxed despite the cold and very happy. Almost for the first time he thought what a pretty woman she was.

The difference in their respective social positions was so great that he had not thought of her in those terms before. Elijah liked women and generally got on very well with them. A life at sea gave little opportunity to form any lasting connection but there had been periods of shore leave. He had become very attached to a girl called Agnes who worked as a barmaid in a tavern in Southampton and had almost been tempted to ask her to marry him during a long spell ashore several years ago. He thought she might have said yes, but he had dithered too long and she had accepted a proposal from the bosun of a third-rater currently under repair in the dockyard.

Since then there had been other girls; casual but affectionate affairs with liking and respect on both sides. This woman from another world could have nothing to do with them, but Elijah decided that he liked her anyway and was glad that this strange matter had thrown them together for this short time.

Up past Scarlett Point they tacked around and made their way across the mouth of the small bay. The rocky shore of the Langness Peninsula was easily visible in the bright winter sunlight. A collection of seals lounged on some rocks but slid into the water as the boat drew closer. It was well into the pupping season and one mother with her pup remained high up on the rocks watching them warily.

“Is that what I think it is?” Katherine breathed.

“Seal pup, lady,” Shimmin agreed. “Quite a young ‘un. She’ll be right, we won’t go in close. If you look over there you’ll see her mates having a good look.”

They were in the water quite close to the boat: half a dozen sleek dark heads bobbing above the water, watching with apparent interest. Elijah heard Katherine make a little sound of sheer happiness. She watched the seals with shining eyes and they looked back, unafraid. Elijah realised he had not felt this happy since he had left the Wren.

The Langness Peninsula was a T-shaped piece of land to the south-east of Castletown which jutted out into the Irish Sea. At the northern end was St Michael’s Isle, connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. Langness was mostly wilderness, though Elijah could see sheep and cattle grazing and one or two stone buildings which might have been small farms or perhaps feed sheds. It looked like a wild, inhospitable place whipped by cold sea winds. There were strong currents off this coast and Elijah watched Shimmin carefully but the boy seemed utterly confident in his handling of his small vessel.

“It must have been about here,” Katherine said very quietly.

Elijah realised she had stopped watching the wildlife and was looking over to the shore of Castletown. She had a good eye. One of the row of houses he could see must be hers and, looking from the attic window, this would have been the approximate location of the shipwreck.

He looked around him. The shore itself was rocky and dangerous and there was no sign of a lighthouse or even a harbour light on the point. He had thought several times during his enquiries about local shipwrecks that the island needed more lighthouses or at the very least more effective harbour and quayside lights. Sailors trying to find their way through darkness or fog up this treacherous shore could easily mistake a lit up house for an important landmark with disastrous results.

Elijah studied the shore thoughtfully, trying to imagine what would happen here if a ship was blown off course or simply mistook her way in a storm. The rocky outcrops would definitely cause a ship to become stuck if she was driven aground but it would also be relatively easy for a crew to scramble ashore. Besides, the land mass was surely big enough to be seen on all but the worst night.

He glanced at Katherine. She had fallen silent after her delight at the antics of the seals and for the first time he thought she looked cold, though perhaps she was shivering at the recollection of that evening. He gave her a reassuring smile and she attempted a wan response. Then he turned back and surveyed the choppy waters around him.

Up ahead he caught a glimpse of what he thought was the sleek dark head of another seal. He stared at it, waiting for it to reappear. Before it did so, Shimmin was up and busy with the sail. Elijah shot him a questioning glance. The wind was stronger here and the canvas made a sharp cracking sound as Shimmin hauled on the rope.

“Just drawing her out. There’s a line of rocks just here. You can’t easily see them except at low tide.”

Elijah felt himself freeze. He looked back at the dark line in the water which had not been a seal at all.

“Let me do that,” he said. “You can steer. You know it better than I do.”

Shimmin did not argue, moving to the rudder. For a few minutes the two men concentrated on changing course away from the rocks. When he was free to relax, Elijah sat down on the bench. He felt strangely shaky. Katherine was watching him.

“Are you all right, Mr Winterton?”

“Yes, perfectly. Are you, ma’am? You look a bit cold.”

“I am.” She was looking around her. “Is this the place?”

“I think it might be. Far enough out from shore and impossible to see if you didn’t know it was there. They need a lighthouse out here; it’s criminal. Any ship could run aground on that, and in a storm…”

“Would that be the Kittiwake you’re talking about?”

Shimmin spoke in a conversational tone. His hand was on the tiller and his eyes on the sea ahead as he steered the boat back towards Castletown. Both Elijah and Katherine stared at him. Then Katherine said brightly:

“The Kittiwake, Mr Shimmin? That was a shipwreck wasn’t it?”

Elijah clamped his mouth shut and waited, admiring her quick wits. Shimmin glanced around at her.

“Aye. You’ve heard of it then?”

“Only a little,” Katherine said confidingly. “You might not have heard about this, but I found myself rather embarrassed this week. I thought I saw a ship in trouble from my window. It was nothing and I felt bad that I had caused a fuss but I was asking about local shipwrecks afterwards and somebody mentioned the Kittiwake. Did it happen out here?”

“Aye, right there on the Dragon’s Back rocks.” Shimmin flashed her a sardonic grin. “I’d give a lot to know who let that cat out of the bag. It’s not spoken about round here. Ever.”

“I’d certainly not heard of it, and I’ve heard a few tales of shipwrecks,” Elijah said lightly. “What happened?”

“They’d have my guts for garters if they knew I’ve talked about it to a couple of off-islanders,” Shimmin said with grim amusement. “But that’s all bollocks, that is. Everybody knew at the time and it was in the papers and everything. Only then the gentry got it into their empty bloody heads that it’d put merchant shipping off the island. Blood ridiculous. Money is what matters here. They don’t give a damn about the lives of seamen.”

Elijah was beginning to understand. “Will you tell us?”

“Why not? Might be better talked about to make sure it never happens again. It were this time of year – end of October if I remember. Ten years back or thereabouts. I was a lad then, just starting to go out on calm days to learn how to handle a boat with my Da. It was a rare squall. Four or five vessels in Douglas Harbour were damaged and one was wrecked. A few fishing boats got into trouble and the Malew Lady went down off Peel Town with six men gone. A bad night.”

“It sounds horrible,” Katherine said. “What happened to the Kittiwake?”

“She was coming up from Liverpool with a cargo of wine, brandy and luxury goods. Silks, spices and elegant foodstuffs for the gentry. She hit the rocks late in the evening and the crew couldn’t bring her off. They were being buffeted by the worst of the storm and they sent off every form of distress signal they could manage. It wouldn’t have been easily seen inland in that light but cottages along the coast must have seen it.”

Elijah felt a little chill that had nothing to do with the cold sea breeze. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, sir. She was wrecked. No boats were launched, no rescue parties formed. Sometimes that happens, if there’s nobody in authority to organise it. But usually there’s a few local fishermen will make an effort. That night, nobody did. The next morning news came in to the harbour master and once it calmed down they sent out a few boats, but there was nothing left but the wreckage. They found bodies both in the sea and washed up ashore. They buried them in Malew Churchyard.”

“Did nobody see it?” Katherine asked. Elijah shot her an agonised glance, knowing what was coming.

“Oh yes, they saw it. Rumour has it that they knew what was coming in. Men lined the shore and the cliffs that night, watching as the ship broke up. Maybe they could have saved some with a few boats but none went out. Instead they brought hand carts and gigs where they had them and they waited along the shore for that cargo to wash up. It had been a bad wet summer and crops had failed. Families were struggling and men were desperate. They made a choice to put their own needs above the lives of strangers.”

“Oh dear God,” Katherine said. Her distress was obvious and Elijah reached out and took her hand.

“I’m sorry. I had begun to wonder. It isn’t unheard of. Poverty and desperation will make beasts of even honest men.”

“That’s true enough, sir. That cargo fed whole families through a miserable winter. Everybody local knew of course. The gentry were caught with their pants down, they hadn’t a clue. Though I do wonder if one or two of them might have gone along with it for a few casks of brandy. Still, afterwards I think the district was ashamed. Insurance paid out, I suppose families mourned and the whole thing was set to one side. They weren’t Manx families. But I think there’s guilt. I think it was a bad thing for our people. They still feel the shame.”

“But you don’t,” Elijah said quietly.

“Me? I was a little lad at the time. Only remember it through my Da’s tales. He wasn’t there, he was off at his Ma’s house. She was sick. But I think he felt it anyway. Always wondered what he’d have done if he’d had to make the choice. I don’t think we should bury it any more. Best accept it and move on.”

The wind picked up on the way back in to Castletown and Elijah took to the oars and tried not to worry about the dangerously powerful swell. When they were safely back, he watched as Katherine paid Shimmin and spoke quietly to him for a while. Then he escorted her back up to the house on the shore.

“Will you come inside for a few minutes, Mr Winterton?”

Elijah hesitated. “Do you mind if I don’t, ma’am? I…this is very strange. I’d like time to think about it. I could call tomorrow after work?”

He thought she looked relieved. “Yes of course. I’m very tired. Thank you for letting me come with you though. I would have hated to miss it.”

***

Katherine spent a restless night dreaming of storms and shipwrecks. She was quiet at breakfast, trying not to respond irritably to Mrs Blake’s fussing. Her companion had roundly condemned her sailing trip and repeatedly declared her belief that Katherine had caught a chill and that the cold wind had probably given her a headache. Eventually Katherine put down her tea cup unnecessarily loudly.

“If I am developing a headache, Mrs Blake, it’s because of your constant complaining. I’m perfectly fine; I just have a lot to think about. I believe I shall take a trip to Douglas tomorrow. Will you ask Billy to take a message to Mr Qualtrough at the Crown to ask if I may hire the gig for the day?”

“Certainly, ma’am. What time should I say? Will we be remaining there for an early dinner? I could ask Mr Qualtrough to send one of the grooms with a note to the landlord of the Queen’s Head to bespeak a table…”

“I don’t need you to come with me, Mrs Blake. I have some business at the office of the Manx Advertiser which may take a little time. I’ll take Ellen with me.”

Mrs Blake stared at her in horror for a long moment then abruptly her lip quivered.

“I see. Is this a prelude to my dismissal, ma’am?”

Katherine felt a rush of sympathy. “No of course it is not. But just at the moment I’m engaged on something that is important to me and it is very obvious how much you disapprove. Don’t look so distressed, ma’am. After this week everything will go back to normal again.”

“I apologise if I have offended you, Mrs Gisbourne,” Mrs Blake said stiffly. “I thought…I believed it was my duty to take care of you and to offer advice if I thought you were…if it seemed likely that any innocent action of yours might lead people to draw conclusions which…”

Katherine realised that this sentence was going to go on for longer than she could bear. She folded her napkin and put it down.

“Please, ma’am, that is enough,” she said, trying to speak gently. “I collect that you are speaking of my acquaintance with Mr Winterton. I know perfectly well the likelihood is that ill-disposed persons will turn an innocent friendship into something it is not, but I refuse to live my life in fear of stupid gossip. Very soon Mr Winterton will return to his ship and I will go home to my family and it is very probable that we will never see each other again, but I will always think of him with liking and respect. I don’t know if it is his social standing or the colour of his skin that you struggle with so badly and I don’t care. Please don’t speak of it again.”

Katherine’s visit to the newspaper office was not wasted, although she found the report of the sinking of the Kittiwake frustratingly brief. Mr Jefferson was attentive, bringing the pile of papers she requested and leaving her alone to peruse them. The wreck was mentioned in two editions: the first reporting on the sinking itself and the second giving details of the burials in Malew Churchyard. Nothing was said about the cargo or the lack of a rescue attempt. It was difficult to read anything into this however as most news reports in this publication were equally brief. The main purpose of the newspaper was advertising and it took up almost every page. What it did give her was the exact date and approximate time.

Winterton called when his working day was over and she described the result of her search. He sat quietly after she had finished, sipping his sherry and thinking it over. Finally he said:

“Shimmin was right about the time of year. The last day of October.”

“All Hallows Eve,” Katherine said. “A perfect night for a ghost story.”

“I was just thinking that. They call it Hop tu Naa over here. My landlady tells me that it’s the time when the veil between worlds is very thin, and spirits can cross over.”

“I’m very tempted to remain in my room with the curtains closed all evening until it is past,” Katherine said. He looked up with a quick smile.

“Of course. I think you should, ma’am. You’ve no need to be involved any further. Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”

“Why do I suspect that you won’t be remaining at home with the curtains closed, sir?”

He flashed her one of his sudden grins. “Because you’ve spent too much time around me recently and are coming to know me. No. I’ve been varying my evening walks and I’ve found a spot on the rocks out towards Scarlett Point where I think I’ll be able to see.”

“Why do you want to?”

“Because they were sailors. Like me. Because there should be a witness. After that, it’s over and I’ll be able to leave it and go back to my ship.”

Katherine was silent for a moment. Then she said:

“Will you call for me on your way up?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Let’s see it through together. After that, like you, I think I’ll be ready to go home.”

***

The shore path was deserted as they walked out towards Scarlett Point. There was little out this way apart from one or two isolated farms, a few cottages built well back from the shore and the impressive lines of Scarlett House which was set within walled gardens. Beyond that there was nothing for several miles but the rocky coastline.

It was a clear, dry night with the usual strong breeze. The moon was in its final phase but the sky was so clear that it gave a good light. Elijah took his companion’s hand to steady her over the rougher ground and remembered how hesitant he had been to offer her his arm on that first meeting. They had moved quickly these past weeks from awkward strangers to comfortable friends.

He had noticed, as he passed the last row of cottages overlooking the sea on the edge of Castletown, that every window was dark with either drawn curtains or closed shutters. It made him wonder. Up in the town there had been small groups of young people wandering about, planning some mischief on the night of Hop tu Naa, but down here it felt as though the residents were hunkering down early for the night. Elijah wondered for the first time if he and Katherine were really the only people to have seen this. Rather savagely, he hoped those people who had failed to help for their own gain had to put up with this every year.

Darkness gathered around them as they stood shivering at the point. Both had brought a lantern and these provided a pool of yellow light, though it did nothing to illuminate the sea before them which was lit only faintly by the moonlight.  He could hear the steady rush of waves on the shore.

They did not need to illuminate the ship when it appeared because it was well lit. They watched it approaching the Dragon’s Back, eerily silent as before. There was no sound of the crash as it struck the rocks, no shouted orders or cries of fear. On a night such as this, those would have been clearly audible on shore but Elijah wondered if anybody would have heard them through a raging storm.

The Kittiwake was firmly stuck, buffeted by huge waves, wind and rain. The contrast between that and the relative calm of the October night around Elijah and Katherine was very disturbing. They stood watching the tragedy unfolding in silence but he realised suddenly that she was crying very quietly. He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer, his own face wet with tears too.

It was impossible to see what was going on aboard the merchantman but Elijah could guess. They would be manning the pumps, desperately hoping to keep her afloat for long enough for help to arrive. Men would be deployed to fire signal guns and flares into the dark night. He could see the flares going up and the flashes from the guns, but the eerie silence remained.

Caught on rocks on the edge of an isolated stretch of coast, the Captain must have realised help might not come and the ship was breaking up fast. Two boats were launched. It must have been an appallingly hazardous operation in the churning sea with the ship coming apart, but both made it out into the water, laden with drenched men. The Captain would not be among them and nor would his officers. They would have sent the boys and the men with families. They would have prayed that they would make it to shore in time to get help.

Time ran out very quickly for the Kittiwake. The first of the boats, which looked like a small cutter, was almost immediately swamped by massive waves breaking over the side. The men managed to keep it upright for another fifteen minutes or so, then it was gone, the sail floating ghostly pale in the water. Elijah could not see the men who had been thrown into the churning waves, though he strained his eyes trying. Some of them would have been unable to swim. Others might have struck out for the coast but it was too far in those conditions and they would either have been pulled under or dashed to pieces on the rocks.

The second boat was a galley and even with every man aboard rowing for his life, it would have taken an hour or more to reach the shore. Elijah did not see it go down. One minute it was there, appearing at the crest of a huge wave, then suddenly it was gone and he could see nothing to tell him of its fate.

After that it was over very quickly. There were no more flares or flashes of light and the various lanterns aboard the Kittiwake were abruptly doused. With the disappearance of the ship, all vestiges of the storm vanished. The water was calm again, lapping against the shore in the light of a dying moon. The huge waves and swirling wind had gone. They had never really been there.

“Elijah, I want to go home.”

He turned to her and gathered her into his arms. She clung to him, her tear-streaked face buried in his shoulder. Her voice was choked with tears. He let her cry for a bit, looking over the top of her head out at the calm sea. Eventually she stirred and drew back, wiping her eyes with her gloved hand.

“Are you all right, ma’am? You shouldn’t have come.”

“Yes, I should. You were right. Those poor men deserved someone to witness this and someone to grieve for them.”

“I’m sure their friends and families mourned them.”

“And those carefully shuttered houses along the shore?”

He had not realised she had noticed. “I feel sorry for them,” he said, surprised to find that it was true. “They’re not bad people, but poverty breeds desperation. If they’d manned their fishing boats and gone out to try to help, they might well have gone down too. That happened very quickly and neither of the ship’s boats made it to shore. There would have been even more families who had lost their bread winner and been left to starve.”

“The trouble is, they didn’t try and they must always wonder,” Katherine said softly. “I think I feel sorry for them too. Let’s get back. I’m very cold.”

***

She appeared at the shipping office the day before her departure for England. Elijah, who was in the final weeks of this posting, collected his cape and hat with only the briefest apology to Faragher and walked with her down to the shore and out towards Scarlett Point. They had made it their regular evening walk these past few weeks. They spoke little of the events of that Hop tu Naa night. Instead she talked of her family home in Yorkshire and her imminent return. He spoke of his ship and his Captain and his longing to be back where he felt he belonged.

“All packed?” he asked as they drew level with the final house on the shore.

“Yes. Mrs Blake is beside herself with happiness. I’ve asked her to stay on, to come to Yorkshire with me. I honestly don’t need a companion or a chaperone there; my stepmother will be with me. But when it came to it I couldn’t bring myself to pay her off and send her out into the wilderness to look for another post. We’ll find her something useful to do. There is talk of a visit from Nan’s step-children which is probably going to require extra hands on deck.”

He laughed. “I’ve news of my own. The letter only came this morning. It seems the Wren is back in England. They took heavy damage in an encounter with a French frigate off Lissa and have sailed home for repairs.”

“So you’ll be back far sooner than you expected. That’s wonderful news.”

“It is. I’ve booked my passage for the week after next. I could have gone sooner but to my surprise Cannan asked me stay on to train my replacement.”

“Really? I’m surprised you were willing to do that man any favours.”

“I said no initially but he’s sweetened it with a surprisingly good bonus. I wonder if he actually knows how useless the other two are?”

“Perhaps he’s just realising.” She stopped and turned to him, smiling. “Elijah, I’m not going to drag this out. We need to catch the early tide so I won’t be out for a walk tonight. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you.”

He grinned. “For frightening the life out of you with ghost ships and causing half the island to think you’re a scandalous woman?”

“For being my friend. I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again. I’d like to think we might one day. But even if we don’t, I’ll never forget you. You’re a man who is accustomed to taking orders, so I’m giving you one. You are to take care of yourself and come through this war alive and well. I’m not going to extract a promise to write, since you’ll be far too busy and besides it would probably send polite society into some kind of fit. But I would like to hear when you get your master’s warrant.”

“I promise I’ll let you know, ma’am. Though I’ve been thinking about it recently and to be honest, I’ve wondered if I’m selling myself short. There’s been at least one mixed-race post-captain in his Majesty’s Royal Navy. I thought I might see if I can make that two.”

Her smile broadened. “If you decide to do it, Mr Winterton, I have no doubt you’ll succeed. Good luck.”

“Good luck to you as well, ma’am. I’ve something to give you.”

He held out a small package wrapped in brown paper. Her eyes widened.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh it cost me nothing. There was an old man back on the Herne who was a wonderful wood carver. He taught me when I was a boy and left me his tools when he died. It’s a hobby of mine. I found a piece of timber caught between some rocks one morning down on the shore. It’s definitely from a ship and it’s been there a while. I’ve been drying it out.”

She caught his thought as he had known she would. “Do you think it might be possible?”

“Who knows?  Too many ships have been wrecked along this shore. But it could be and that’s what matters. I made this for you. I made a matching one for myself as well. Something to remember the crew of the Kittiwake.”

She opened it and ran her fingers over the smooth, sanded wood. The little ship was perfect, with stylised wooden sails. The name on its side was so tiny that he had carved it with a pin. She looked up at him with shining eyes.

“Thank you. I’ll treasure it always. Goodbye, Elijah.”

He stood watching her as she walked back up towards her rented house for the last time. When she was no longer in sight, he turned and walked back to the customs’ office, the thought of their friendship making him smile.

Sir Home Popham and the 1807 Bombardment of Copenhagen

Sir Home Popham and the 1807 Bombardment of Copenhagen

Today I’m delighted to welcome historian Dr Jacqueline Reiter, my good friend, partner-in-crime and fellow Popham fan (?) with an excellent post about Sir Home Popham and the 1807 bombardment of Copenhagen. Jacqueline has recently released a brilliant biography of Popham, Quicksilver Captain, which I really recommend to anybody wanting to know the story of his extraordinary life.

My apologies for the late arrival of this post, which should have appeared in celebration of Popham’s birthday. Presumably through the machinations of those enemies who always persecuted him, the website refused to work until today. Happy Belated Birthday Popham.

Those of you who have already read my Manxman trilogy will know my version of what Popham got up to during that campaign. Here, Jacqueline tells the real story…

Sir Home Popham, by Anthony Cardon after Mather Brown, 1807. (Public domain, Yale Centre for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection)

Sir Home Popham (1762–1820) is a fascinating character of the Napoleonic period whose exploits are almost too incredible even for fiction. This is why I am so impressed with Lynn Bryant’s take on him. Her Popham is very much as I imagine the real article would have been – bombastic, clever, unctuous, and with an overdeveloped sense of self-preservation – and I am curious to see where she takes him next. Today, however, I’d like to tell you a little more about the real Popham around the time we first meet him in the Manxman novels: as Captain of the Fleet at the 1807 bombardment of Copenhagen.

Popham first rose to prominence as an expert in disembarking and re-embarking troops under fire – a very useful skill, as Britain’s involvement in the wars against Revolutionary and Napoleonic France often meant carrying large numbers of troops to places that could easily be reached by water. Over the years Popham expanded his portfolio to include diplomacy, work with experimental weapons, intelligence, and acting as an unofficial government advisor. He managed to worm his way into the confidence of the most important men in the country, largely by telling them what they wanted to hear.

Attack upon Buenos Aires by General Beresford, engraver unknown, 1806. (Public domain, Anne S.K. Brown Military Collection, Brown University Library)

The year 1807, however, didn’t start well for Popham. He returned in disgrace from South America, where he had embroiled Britain in an unauthorised campaign by attacking the Spanish-held city of Buenos Aires. The invasion had initially gone well, but the inhabitants had rebelled and captured nearly every single British soldier involved. Popham was court-martialled for his role in this disastrous expedition and found guilty, but the government wasn’t ready to cashier such a useful officer just yet. Popham got off with a “severe reprimand” (a slap on the wrist) and was immediately re-employed as Captain of the Fleet at Copenhagen, effectively aide-de-camp to the commanding admiral, Sir James Gambier, and equivalent to a rear admiral in rank.

James Gambier, by George Clint after William Beechey, 1808. (Public domain, The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs, The New York Public Library)

This appointment did make some sense. Popham had a track record of facilitating amphibious operations, and the assault on Copenhagen involved 25,000 British troops alongside a fleet of 120 ships. The campaign would also require finesse, along with some difficult decision-making. An unexpected alliance between Russia and France in the summer of 1807 threatened British interests in the Baltic, where many essential naval stores came from. France had lost a lot of its naval power at Trafalgar in 1805, but British politicians feared Napoleon might “borrow” the fleet of another country – in this instance, that of Denmark. Denmark was a neutral power, but now Russia had sided with France the British politicians feared it might put pressure on Denmark to join the war against the British. British intelligence suggested Denmark’s fleet consisted of 18 ships of the line and 11 frigates, along with several smaller vessels. [1] The British government therefore decided to capture the Danish fleet before France could seize it – but this would mean a pre-emptive attack on a neutral power. The British commanders, Lieutenant General Lord Cathcart and Admiral James Gambier, were not enamoured at this prospect. Popham, however, had no such qualms.

But Popham’s appointment was a startlingly tone-deaf thing for the government to do, so soon after his well-publicised court-martial. Popham had never been popular in the Navy; he had been promoted to post-captain in 1794 at the request of the Army, and most of his employment had taken him way from the quarterdeck. By 1807, although Popham had been a post-captain for 13 years, he only had about five years’ worth of active experience. Under these circumstances, his appointment as Captain of the Fleet caused a furore. Questions were asked about it in the House of Commons, with one prominent opposition MP claiming Popham’s appointment represented “the encouragement of all insubordination, and the subversion of all discipline”. [2] Three captains serving as commodores on the expedition to Denmark – Sir Samuel Hood, Richard Keats, and Robert Stopford – issued an official protest expressing their “extreme sorrow and concern”:

The principles under which we have been brought up induce us to make any sacrifice that the service of our country may require. We are ready to proceed to any immediate service, but we rely that as early measures will be taken without injury to the service as can be effected to relieve us from the humiliating situation in which the appointment of Sir Home Popham as captain of the fleet we feel ourselves placed. [3]

The Portland ministry had only been in power a handful of months and was not strong. Its members were all too well aware there might be political repercussions from their choice of Captain of the Fleet, particularly if Popham did something stupid – which he had a track record of doing. The First Lord of the Admiralty, therefore, pressed Popham to keep his head down as much as possible. Frustratingly for the historian (but not for the novelist!), Popham is uncharacteristically missing from the records of the Copenhagen expedition, despite his privileged position as Captain of the Fleet.

The bombardment of Copenhagen, by Johan Lorenz Rugendas II, 1820. (Public domain, Anne S.K. Brown Military Collection, Brown University Library)

The four-day bombardment of Copenhagen, a neutral city, in September 1807 left a bitter taste, and Popham’s involvement may not have done him any more favours. At first, however, Popham expected to be well rewarded for participating: “All I ask of the present Administration & of my Country is to give me a patent Place not less than a thousand a Year.” [4] But the timing of the end of the campaign was catastrophic for Popham. In mid-September, news arrived in London of the definitive failure of Popham’s experiment in South America. General Whitelocke had been sent in March with 10,000 men to re-capture Buenos Aires, but this had ended in complete disaster. The outcome of the second Buenos Aires expedition did not make the government keen to reward Popham, and the horrified reaction of the rest of Europe to what had happened at Copenhagen only made things worse for him.

Popham received no reward for Copenhagen. He complained to his patron Melville: “There is a damn’d deal of ingratitude in the World.” [5] Did Popham’s refusal to investigate disease-ridden transports weigh against him with the powers that be? Was he subsequently involved in the court-martial of a member of His Majesty’s Army? We will never know, as the records on his involvement are so thin. But you can read more about such speculation in Lynn’s books.

References

[1] Intelligence report from Captain Francis Beauman, 25 July 1807, TNA ADM 1/5

[2] Speech by Windham, 31 July 1807, in The Times, 1 August 1807

[3] R.V. Hamilton (ed.), Letters and Papers of Admiral of the Fleet Sir Thomas Byam Martin (London: Navy Records Society, 1898), vol. 1, pp. 330–331

[4] Popham to Melville, 11 September 1807, William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Melville MSS, Box 23

[5] Popham to Melville, 23 November 1807, British Library Loan MS 57/108, no. 8

About Jacqueline Reiter

Jacqueline Reiter received her PhD from the University of Cambridge in 2006. Her first book, The Late Lord: the Life of John Pitt, 2nd Earl of Chatham (Pen and Sword, 2017), illuminated the career of Pitt the Younger’s elder brother. Her articles have appeared in History Today and the Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research; she has written for the History of Parliament and co-written a chapter with John Bew on British war aims for the Cambridge History of the Napoleonic Wars. Her latest book, Quicksilver Captain: The Improbable Life of Sir Home Popham, is published by Helion.

Quicksilver Captain by Jacqueline Reiter

Quicksilver Captain by Jacqueline Reiter is the story of Sir Home Popham, a fascinating and little known naval officer of the late-eighteenth and early nineteenth century. This is the second historical biography by Dr Jacqueline Reiter and it tells the story of an extraordinary man, extraordinarily well.

Popham’s career must have been a challenge to research and to write. His story is not that of dramatic battles or naval glory. He doesn’t feature in any of the huge paintings of the era and if he is known at all today, it is for his signalling system. However Popham was a brilliant, mercurial and versatile officer who was known as much for his spectacular mistakes as for his successes.

Dr Reiter does a brilliant job of capturing the quixotic nature of Popham. She writes with a balanced pen, showing her subject’s shady side along with his undoubted talents. She also manages to draw out his vulnerabilities along with his arrogance. The Popham she depicts must have driven his fellow officers, his commanders and the politicians who employed him completely mad at times. However, his achievements show flashes of genuine brilliance and the author paints a nuanced picture of his virtues and his flaws.

I loved this book. Having already researched Popham for my own work, I found this biography well-researched, well-written and hugely entertaining. Dr Reiter has the rare knack of combining scholarship and storytelling in her work. This makes Popham’s story appealing to navy specialists, general historians and readers who love a well-told tale.

Absolutely fabulous and highly recommended. I can’t wait to find out her next subject.

An Ungentlemanly Officer

Welcome to An Ungentlemanly Officer which is a bonus short story for 2024. As always, it’s freely available on my website  and as a PDF so please share it as much as you like.

This story was written in the middle of a difficult time when I was really struggling to write at all. Since writing is what I love and often what keeps me sane, not being able to do so is never good for me. I was becoming a little desperate.

Eventually I decided to just sit down and write something.  The story came out of a conversation with some readers on Twitter about everybody’s favourite ongoing bad guy, Cecil Welby. Welby has featured in several short stories and has now made it into the main series of books. There have been several mentions about his history of poor behaviour and An Ungentlemanly Officer expands on one of these tales.

For those of you reading the books who like to know where every short story fits into the chronology, this would slot into the first half of An Unconventional Officer (Book One). Paul van Daan spent the winter months in Yorkshire on secondment to the 115th Foot and has already met Anne Howard, the redoubtable daughter of a Yorkshire textile baron. As far as he knows in this story, he’s unlikely to see her again but all that is about to change.

This story is not released to celebrate any particular event apart from, hopefully, the return of my ability to write again. It is however a gift to those many, many readers who have posted and messaged me with their support and good wishes. You’re all wonderful and you make everything I do worthwhile. Thank you with all my heart.

 

An Ungentlemanly Officer

Lisbon 1808

The invitation to the ball was lying on the table, as it had been for three days. He had opened it and set it aside, not troubling to reply. No response was required anyway; in Lisbon society in the aftermath of the French withdrawal, both Portuguese and British officers were welcome guests at any entertainment. Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde had spent the past weeks avoiding as many as he could.

The room was small, situated above a barber’s shop and inclined to be damp. There was a leak in the ceiling which required a bucket beneath it when it rained heavily. It had a rusty iron bedstead, a rickety washstand with a cracked mirror, and a battered table and chair. Ataíde, late of the Portuguese Legion, did not care about any of this. It was a room of his own where he could bolt the badly-fitting door and shut out the world and he was passionately grateful for it.

Jaime had arrived back in Lisbon after long exhausting weeks on the road from Northern Spain. Much of it had been spent travelling at night, dodging French patrols. He lived on what little he could steal or scavenge because he did not dare to approach villages or farmhouses openly to ask for help.

 Spain had, until recently, been allied with Bonaparte’s France and although it had now officially changed sides, Jaime knew that there might be some French supporters among the locals. Even more likely was that the villagers would betray him out of fear of French reprisals. He had no wish to put anybody at risk so he went hungry until he reached the safety of his own country which was currently, if somewhat precariously, under the protection of the British.

There was, Jaime found, little for him to do. He arrived to discover the remains of the disbanded Portuguese army in chaos while the British, having recently won two stunning victories against the French at Rolica and Vimeiro, had then made a disgraceful peace allowing the enemy to return home with full honours and chests full of Portuguese looted treasures. Jaime was furious. Seething with frustration he reported to the authorities and was allocated a billet, rations and the chance to rummage through piles of discarded kit and uniforms to replace his threadbare garments. Other than that he could only wait, rest and try to recover from his long ordeal.

By the time Sir John Moore led a British army into Spain to meet the French in early November, Jaime would have been ready to march with them but it was not possible. No Portuguese troops accompanied the army. What little organisation there was centred around garrison duty and the officers were bored and restless. They gambled away their pay, grumbled about the lack of orders and accepted every possible invitation from the British garrison while awaiting news.

Jaime was not sure that he was ready to socialise again. The long weeks of isolation and hardship seemed to have robbed him of his pleasure in drinking, dancing and gossip. For a while he hid in his billet and read, but his fellow officers refused to leave him alone. They persecuted him until he began, reluctantly, to accompany them to the endless balls and parties given by local dignitaries to entertain Sir John Cradock and the British officers.

He had almost dug in his heels this evening, purely because of the weather. It was raining; an autumn downpour which would mean he would arrive in the ballroom wet and grumpy. There was no wheeled transport to be had and Jaime sent a civil refusal to his friends. He was not entirely surprised when they arrived anyway, fresh from a tavern, laughing and shaking raindrops from their hair.

“Stop being such a misery, Ataíde,” Captain Peso said. “Everybody there will be wet, including some of the ladies. We’ll soon dry out. Old Barroso always lays on a good supper, all the prettiest girls will be there and…”

“And they will all be dancing with the English officers,” Jaime said. “I have a good red wine here and an excellent book and I would rather…”

They bundled him out of the door laughing and he went, in the end, willingly enough. Recovery was taking too long and he knew in his heart that it would not be found in his solitary room. For a while he had told himself that he was refusing to re-join society as a protest at being unable to fight for his country, but he was beginning to wonder if it was actually because he was afraid. There would be more fighting in his future and he could not afford to give in to fear, so he donned his second-hand dress uniform and shared a battered umbrella to the Palácio de Barroso where the cream of Lisbon society mingled with British officers in scarlet coats and Portuguese officers in whatever uniform they had been able to scrounge.

Even in his shabbiness, Jaime did not feel out of place. The orchestra was excellent and the palace boasted a series of elegant reception rooms leading into a mirrored ballroom. It was already crowded when Peso led his small band to greet his host.

Barroso was a genial man in his fifties, married to a rather younger second wife. He came from a minor branch of an aristocratic family who had made a fortune before the war in wine, olives and the spice trade. Jaime knew he was an enthusiastic supporter of the British, probably for business reasons. He had two sons, one of whom served in the army. Jaime knew him slightly and stopped at the end of the receiving line to talk to him.

Vasco Barroso was around the same age as Jaime. His regiment had been disbanded the previous year but, unlike Jaime, he had not been drafted into the Portuguese Legion and marched off to fight for the French. Instead he had joined one of the volunteer units and remained in the vicinity of Lisbon, harrying the French whenever possible and providing valuable intelligence to Sir Arthur Wellesley upon his arrival in Portugal. Jaime was envious of Barroso who had not been required to make a dangerous escape from French service. He was also envious of his immaculate uniform.

“I’m glad you came, Ataíde,” Barroso said warmly, waving for a servant to bring wine. “You’ve been like a hermit these past weeks.”

“I was very tired after my journey.”

“I’m surprised you survived your journey. You make it sound like a walk in the park, but those of us who stayed safely in Lisbon have nothing but admiration for those of you who managed to get back to us. A lot of the men made it too but it must have been more difficult for the officers.”

“It took me a long time to find the opportunity,” Jaime said. The memory of his weeks marching under a French banner was a bitter taste in his mouth. “They raged about the loss of men, but it was impossible for anyone to keep an eye on them all the time. None of the Portuguese officers tried, of course. The French hunted them into the countryside where they could, but there were not enough of them and if they left the column unguarded, more disappeared. It would have been funny if it had not been for those they shot.”

Barroso handed him a glass of wine and took one for himself. “Were there many?” he asked soberly.

“To be honest, no. They were trying to convince us that we were comrades, not prisoners. That we were fighting for the glory of a new, liberated Portugal under the benign rule of the Emperor. It is difficult to do that if you shoot every man who leaves the ranks. They kept executions to a minimum and tried to disguise them as punishments for looting or attacking an officer. Though none of us were fooled. We all understood that it was a warning.”

“How did you get away?”

“Once we were past Salamanca there were fewer desertions. I think the men were becoming resigned. It would be a long, dangerous journey home from there and the food and conditions were good. One or two of the officers were already supporters of Bonaparte and his reforms and they did a good job of telling the men how much better Portugal would be under his rule.”

“Treacherous bastards.”

Jaime flinched internally. One of the officers concerned had been an old and valued friend and the memory was still painful, but he knew that Lieutenant Calisto had genuinely believed what he said. He made no response to Barroso’s contempt but continued his story.

“From Salamanca we marched north towards the border, along the great road towards Bayonne. There is a fortress called Burgos and after that the country becomes more mountainous. The men were less and less likely to desert in such difficult country and the locals do not even speak Spanish as we understand it but some barbarous dialect which sounds rather as though they are choking. No incentive to leave. That is when I left.”

Barroso looked startled. “Mother of God, I had no idea. How far…I mean, how many miles did you have to walk alone to get back here?”

“I did not know, of course, but Colonel da Cunha had a map and he told me later that it was around five hundred miles. I did not actually cross into France. I doubt I could have escaped after that.” Jaime felt his mouth twist into a small, bitter smile. “I got rid of my French jacket as soon as I could. I was afraid that the French would shoot me as a deserter and the Spanish would shoot me as a Frenchman. I stole clothing and food when I was able to do so. Ate nuts and berries and fruit from orchards. Sometimes I managed to catch rabbits or fish in streams. It was a long way. At times I wished I had not done it.”

Barroso raised his glass. “You are a true patriot and a brave man, my friend.”

Jaime acknowledged the toast awkwardly. “And now I am virtually unemployed.”

“Not for long. There are all kinds of rumours but the army will be reassembled and it will be different this time. Most of the old fools who were willing to surrender to the French without a fight have fled to Brazil with the Royal Family. Sir John Moore has just marched out to join with the Spanish patriots against Bonaparte’s forces in Spain and rumour has it that our army will be reformed with the help of the British. New officers, new equipment and better discipline. Men like you will be needed.”

“You too, Barroso. Don’t think I’m not aware that you were leading partisan volunteers against those bastards while I was taking the long walk home.”

Barroso laughed, flushing a little. “I did what I could. Let us drink a toast, Ataíde. To the new Portuguese army and death to the French. Come, drink up and then I will introduce you to some of our prettiest girls. My sister has friends here tonight and they have all heard of your heroic escape.”

Jaime drained his glass obediently. “Your sister? Didn’t she marry?”

“She did. Four years ago. He was fifteen years older than her and he drank himself to death, leaving her a very wealthy widow.”

“A widow?” Jaime said, startled. “Then how…I mean I am surprised she is here tonight. When did he die?”

Barroso’s lips tightened into a thin line. “More than a year ago,” he said briefly. “She is her own mistress and goes where she chooses. We had expected that she would live modestly at home, as a widow should, until my father found another husband for her. Instead she parades around as though she cares nothing for her reputation. She’s making a complete fool of herself – and our family. Another man would ban her from the house but you know how soft my father is. And she was always his favourite.” Barroso took another swig of wine and shrugged. “The only benefit of her poor behaviour is that she always has a gaggle of pretty unmarried friends with her. I’ll introduce you.”

He did so, leaving Jaime bewildered in a sea of names. He managed to focus on one he knew; a dainty child of sixteen from the Espada family, whose cousin had served with him several years earlier. She accepted his invitation to dance with shy gratitude.

Afterwards, Jaime found himself incorporated into the party. There were one or two Portuguese militia officers, younger than he and slightly overawed by his reputation. The story of his remarkable journey back to Lisbon had spread throughout the city. It had never occurred to Jaime that it might make him something of a hero. He had no intention of trading on it too much, but once the room began to fill with British officers in red coats it ensured that he was still never without a partner.

He took a short break for some wine and found himself standing beside Barroso’s sister. Jaime remembered meeting her before her marriage, although she had been much younger then. She must be around twenty-one now, several years his junior. He did not remember having been particularly struck by her beauty back then but either her looks or his taste had considerably improved. Ebony hair was partly covered by a wisp of black lace which looked nothing like a mourning veil and her eyes were almost as dark. She had warm olive skin and the relatively modest neckline of her black gown hinted at an excellent figure.

Knowing her widowed status and the obvious disapproval of her family at her appearance at such a public event, Jaime had kept his distance after their initial polite introductions, but he could hardly ignore the girl now. He gave a little bow and summoned his best company manners.

“Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, Dona Inés. I’m afraid I am rather late with them but they are sincere.”

She acknowledged him with a regal nod. “My thanks, Lieutenant. It has been more than a year but I am well aware that you have been heroically occupied for much of that time so you have no need to apologise. I was not sure if you remembered me.”

He smiled. “A little. You were much younger then and I think I was a very self-important young officer who was going to change the entire Portuguese army from the inside out. I was probably barely civil.”

To his pleased surprise she laughed out loud. “You were actually very kind. Far more so than most of my brothers’ army friends. I’m sorry you didn’t have the time to effect the necessary changes. You would probably have done a better job than those who were actually in charge.”

“At least I would have made different mistakes.”

The orchestra were playing the introductory bars of the next dance. Jaime hesitated. He had not seen her dance yet and was well aware that to do so would be a shocking thing for a young widow but he was not sure that this particular widow would care all that much.

“Do you dance this evening, Dona? If so, I would be very honoured.”

She rewarded him with a warm smile. “Thank you. I have every intention of dancing, sir, even though it will infuriate my family. I am waiting for a particular friend however and have promised him my first dance. If you ask me again later…”

Jaime bowed, conscious of a flicker of disappointment at the news of a favoured suitor. “I will be sure to do so, Dona. In the meantime, I will keep you company until his arrival.”

“There is no need, Lieutenant, because I see him now. Ask Senhorita Guida to dance, she looks lonely.”

Jaime recognised his dismissal and complied. As he obediently made his way onto the dance floor with the young Guida girl he was surprised to observe that Dona Inés’ suitor was not the Portuguese grandee he had been expecting, but a tall dark British officer with a dramatic moustache and a lordly manner. He bowed over the woman’s hand with an arrogance that raised Jaime’s hackles and towed her onto the dance floor.

It was one of the traditional Portuguese dances. In recent years, many hostesses had begun to incorporate more modern French dances into their balls but Jaime liked these slower dances as it was easier to talk to his partner. Senhorita Guida was a graceful dancer and a pleasant conversationalist. After a while, Jaime saw her glance over at Dona Inés and her partner which gave him the opportunity to indulge his curiosity.

“Who is the gentleman dancing with Dona Inés, Senhorita?”

“Oh that is Captain Welby, Lieutenant. He arrived in Lisbon recently with reinforcements to join his regiment. Cavalry, I believe. Unfortunately Sir John Moore had already marched out so he is awaiting orders about where to proceed to join him. In the meantime he is very popular with the ladies of Lisbon.”

“So I see,” Jaime said dryly, watching as the cavalry officer danced with Dona Inés. “Especially that particular lady. I cannot help wondering…but it is none of my business, of course.”

“Her family are furious,” Senhorita Guida said mildly. “They were angry enough that she refused to remain in seclusion but of course they could do nothing about that, because her husband has no other heirs and he left her everything. I believe he intended to write a clause into his will about her father taking control of the money but for some reason or other he did not do so. I suppose he did not expect to die so soon. He was not so very old.”

“But a good deal older than her.”

“That is very usual in such marriages, Lieutenant. We all know it.”

Jaime shot her a curious glance. It had already occurred to him that this girl was rather old to be unmarried in a society in which girls married very young. He thought she must be at least twenty.

“What of you, Senhorita Guida?”

Her lips curled in an understanding smile. “I am sure you are wondering, Lieutenant. My situation is very different to poor Inés. I have neither great wealth nor great beauty. I also have a widowed mother who is happy to have me at home just now so she is not eager to push me into marriage with the first man who applies for my hand. There was a gentleman…an officer of militia. He was killed during the French invasion. We were not formally betrothed, it was merely an understanding, so I do not have to wear black and stay at home. Though I often wish I could.”

Jaime felt his heart twist at the little break in her voice. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“You did not. At least, not into my affairs. You were asking me about Inés. In response to all the questions you were too polite to ask, I think her family believe she has fallen in love with Captain Welby and they are very unhappy about it.”

“Do you think she has?”

“I cannot be sure. Inés and I have been friends since we were children but she is hard to read. She seems to like his company and flirts with him at every opportunity. But sometimes I wonder if she is doing that because she knows she should not. She was very angry with her family, you see, for making her marry. She was barely seventeen and he was not a kind husband. She was so unhappy for a few years. Now, quite unexpectedly, she has all the money she wants and all the freedom she lacked. Girls very seldom have that. I can see why it might have gone to her head. But I wish she would not.”

Jaime decided that this surprising girl was very shrewd. “Do you disapprove, Senhorita?”

“Not of her going to parties. It is ridiculous that she should be shut away at twenty-two until her father or brothers find another man for her to marry. At the very least, given what she has been through, she should be allowed to make that choice for herself this time. And there would be no shortage of eligible suitors.”

“But you do not approve of her chosen suitor.”

She looked up at him. He realised that her somewhat mousy hair was offset by glorious amber coloured eyes.

“I do not like her chosen suitor,” she corrected him crisply. “The two things are not at all the same. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I have spoken far too freely about things that I don’t really understand. It is all your fault. You are so easy to talk to.”

The dance was coming to an end with a flourish. Jaime stepped back and bowed.

“So are you, Senhorita Guida. Thank you for the dance, it was delightful. May I ask if you are free for the supper dance?”

She laughed. “I am always free for the supper dance, Lieutenant, though since I am an unmarried girl, you should probably ask my mother’s permission.”

“Of course. If you will introduce me.”

She was still laughing. “I was teasing you, Lieutenant. She isn’t here, I came with the Cuesta party.”

“Then I will be happy with your permission instead. I’ll come and find you.”

He delivered her back to her party and went in search of his friends. He found them sharing wine with Vasco Barroso. Jaime had the impression that they too were discussing the matter of the lovely Dona Inés and the cavalryman. They greeted Jaime cheerfully and Lieutenant Javan complimented him on having dried out so well. Jaime aimed a mock punch at his friend, wondering if his improved mood was that obvious. Barroso did not seem to be sharing the jovial atmosphere. He was staring glumly at his sister who was dancing for a second time with Captain Welby.

“I’d like to kick him down the stairs,” he said. “He must know the damage he’s doing to her reputation. How is she going to make a good second marriage after this? He treats her like…”

He stopped as though suddenly realising he had been about to say something highly inappropriate about his sister. Jaime was glad he had restrained himself but he felt a painful sympathy. Watching the couple on the dance floor, he knew exactly what Barroso meant. It was not just Welby’s arrogant possessiveness, although that was irritating enough. There was something disrespectful about the way he detached Inés da Sousa from her companions and he very obviously did not care at all that he was making her conspicuous. At one point, Jaime was fairly sure he saw Welby’s arm about the girl’s waist as he led her to find more wine.

Jaime badly wanted to punch the man. He wondered if any of the British officers present had noticed but decided that even if they had, they probably would not care. If Inés had been an unmarried daughter, Barroso could have prohibited her from attending parties while Welby was still in Lisbon, or even complained to a senior officer about his behaviour. Given Dona Inés’ unusual position in society there was little anybody could do even if they cared enough.

Jaime danced several more times with friends of the Barroso family. The supper dance was approaching and he glanced at his pocket watch then looked around the room for Senhorita Guida.

“Have you managed to get a partner for supper, Ataíde?” Peso demanded. “You lucky dog. We’ve all been cut out by the blasted English. That’s what comes of being a hero of Portugal. I wish I’d been marched off with the elite of the Portuguese Legion.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d spent a week hiding in caves in the Pyrenees, sir,” Jaime said with a laugh. “I’m escorting Senhorita Guida.”

“Joana?” Barroso said. “Very good choice, Ataíde, she’s a lovely girl. I’ve known her since she was small. Not much of a dowry of course, and she can’t hold a candle to my sister for looks but she has a lot more sense. In fact I suspect she is more clever than I am.”

Jaime grinned. “I thought she seemed very intelligent. She didn’t seem all that impressed with Captain Welby either.”

“Good God, no. I believe she told my sister to her face that she thought he was making a fool of her but there’s no talking to Inés when she’s in this mood. He’ll take her into supper and I’ll have to sit watching while he drools over her like a mangy cur with a juicy bone. I can’t stand it.”

Jaime was impressed with the other man’s eloquence. He realised Barroso had been drinking a lot and hoped it would not push him into some social faux pas with his sister’s suitor. He continued to search the room for his chosen partner and saw her finally in a group around General Sir John Cradock who was currently the military governor of Lisbon.

There was a new arrival; a tall, fair officer in a red coat who was talking to Cradock and several other senior officers. He had his back to the room but as Jaime smiled at Joana Guida, the officer turned and surveyed the assembled company with an expression of amused interest.

He was clean-shaven and had a memorable face with striking blue eyes and a ready smile. Jaime thought that he was probably close to his own age, though he wore the insignia of a major which placed him several ranks higher. His height and build were not dissimilar to Captain Welby but Jaime, who found faces interesting, thought that this man gave a very different impression. He was used to the hierarchy of army life but he thought that he had never seen quite this air of unconscious authority from such a young officer in such a glittering setting. He found himself wondering if this man could carry it onto a battlefield as well. If so, it must make him a formidable leader.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Barroso turned to look. “The one with the fair hair? Oh, that’s Major van Daan of the 110th. Have you not met him before? Probably not; he’s not been out much recently. He got left behind when Moore marched out, poor bastard. Half the battalion came down with camp fever and Van Daan’s young wife along with them, so they left the Major in charge here.”

“Did she survive?” Jaime asked. He knew how quickly camp fever could devastate an army.

“Yes; I’m told she’s finally on the mend. He lost a few of the men, mind. Must have been bloody frustrating for him as well. He’s a favourite of Sir Arthur Wellesley and played a big part at Rolica and Vimeiro but of course they’ve packed off Wellesley to London along with Burrard and Dalrymple, to answer for that appalling peace treaty at Cintra. Then he didn’t even get to march with Moore. He must feel like the man they left behind. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Though he doesn’t speak much Portuguese.”

Van Daan was engaged in conversation with two senior officers but he broke off as Barroso approached and came forward with a smile and a salute.

“Lieutenant Barroso. It is good to see you.”

He spoke in halting Portuguese, with a dreadful accent. Barroso made the introductions very slowly and Jaime bowed. He wished he spoke more than a few words of basic English, because he realised that he very much wanted to have a conversation with this man although he had no idea why. Barroso smiled, bowed and moved on, leaving Jaime to extricate himself from a somewhat awkward situation with no common language. Van Daan studied him with considerable interest.

“Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde,” he said thoughtfully. Unexpectedly he switched to fluent, idiomatic French. “I do beg your pardon for speaking the language of the enemy at a social occasion, as well as for my assumption that you’ll understand it. But I’ve heard of you and I’m very glad to meet you. Am I right?”

Jaime had never been so pleased to hear French in his life. “You are right, sir,” he said, in the same language. “I was taught it as a boy in school but my fluency improved considerably earlier this year.”

Van Daan laughed aloud. “I’ll just bet it did,” he said. “Look, let me make my excuses to Colonel Barry here and we will find a drink and somewhere peaceful to talk.”

“I would love to, Major, but I may not until after supper. I have promised to escort a young lady.”

“Of course you have. Forgive me. I’ve left my own lady at home; she’s still recovering from an illness. I’ll have a bachelor supper with my fellow officers and find you afterwards. Unless…”

Jaime realised that Van Daan was looking across the room. He turned to follow the other man’s gaze and saw that he appeared to be watching Captain Welby. The cavalry officer was raising a glass to Inés da Sousa, who was laughing up at him. Jaime thought uncomfortably that she might be a little tipsy and felt for her family’s helpless rage.

“Isn’t that Barroso’s sister?” Van Daan asked in sudden interest. “We met a few months ago, I believe.”

“Yes,” Jaime said glumly. “The gentleman with her is a Captain Welby, I am told. Of the…”

“Of the 9th Dragoon Guards,” Van Daan finished for him. As they watched, Welby reached out a hand and ran a finger very delicately over the pale skin at the base of the girl’s throat, then down towards the modest bodice of her gown. Inés seemed to sway towards him. Jaime felt himself go rigid with anger.

Behind them a voice said:

“Paul, don’t you bloody dare.”

Van Daan spun around. His good-looking face was alight with laughter. His friend had spoken in English but Van Daan replied in French, obviously for Jaime’s benefit.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Swanson. What possible harm can I do? I’m on very good terms with her family; they’ve been keeping my wife supplied with luxury food to tempt her appetite. And I’m a respectable married man. Everybody here knows that.”

The Lieutenant said a word under his breath that even Jaime was able to translate from English. Van Daan lifted his eyebrows and waited. After a moment the other man rolled his eyes, stood to attention and saluted smartly. Van Daan grinned.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Go and find yourself a partner and join us. Mr Ataíde here will help.”

“You’re going to get cashiered. Again.”

“I was not cashiered. Your memory is going, it must be the fever. Excuse me, Mr Ataíde. Save me space at your table, I’m bringing a guest.”

Jaime watched as he crossed the room to join Inés and Welby. He clapped the cavalry officer on the shoulder so heartily that it must have hurt, stepped neatly between him and the woman, took Inés’ hand and bowed over it with surprising grace. Jaime saw her look of surprise, followed by recognition. Then she was smiling, blushing a little. Jaime supposed she understood some French. Most girls learned it in the schoolroom. Certainly she understood whatever elegant compliment Major van Daan had just paid her.

The Major kept hold of her hand with a casual possessiveness which managed, unlike Welby, to appear completely respectful. He turned to Welby and spoke. Welby did not move. Van Daan spoke again. Welby snapped to attention and saluted.

Van Daan kissed the girl’s hand again and relinquished it. He put his hand on Welby’s shoulder again and steered him firmly away, speaking very quietly. Jaime had no idea what he was saying and would have paid to find out, but when he released Welby and returned to Inés, the man did not follow. Van Daan smiled at the girl, placed her hand on his arm and looked around for Jaime.

Jaime remembered his instructions and collected his partner along with an unattached girl for Lieutenant Swanson. He discovered that Van Daan had already found a spacious table.

“Come and join us, Mr Ataíde. Senhorita Guida, it’s good to see you again. I believe we danced together at Sir Arthur Wellesley’s ball. Mr Ataíde, we have a confusion of languages here. I’m going to have to rely on you to translate where necessary. After supper, we’ll talk.”

Jaime handed Joana into her chair. He felt very disoriented but thought at this moment that he would probably have obeyed an order from this man to charge the enemy cannon without the slightest hesitation.

***

It was the early hours of the morning by the time Major Paul van Daan left the Palácio de Barroso and made his way through the darkened streets to the villa he had rented on his arrival in Lisbon earlier in the year. It had been a sudden decision to bring his wife with him and her recent illness had caused him bitter regrets at times. They had agreed that she would follow him out as soon as she received word that Lisbon was secure and she had been delighted with this elegant villa which Paul had managed to hire from the agent of a Portuguese grandee who had fled to Brazil with the Royal Family.

Rowena was shy in company but she had tried her best in the weeks after Wellesley’s victories, as Lisbon celebrated with parades and parties, lauding the British as liberators and heroes. Paul was happy that she was with him. Their marriage had not always been easy and he was bitterly aware of his infidelities and failings as a husband but he was genuinely resolved to do better.

The outbreak of camp fever had prevented him from joining Sir John Moore’s march into Spain. The rest of the 110th had marched out under Colonel Johnstone while Paul was left in command of around two hundred men too sick to march. Most of them came from his light company and it was not long before several of the officers came down with the illness. When Rowena sickened, Paul had been utterly terrified. He remained by her bedside, blaming himself and longing for the chance to tell her how much she meant to him.

Her recovery had been slow, but seemed assured now. Most of his men were also on the mend although too many had died. Paul hated losing men to sickness, though it was the most common cause of death in the army. He felt restless and shut out, waiting both for news from the rest of his battalion in Spain and from Wellesley in London about the result of the Cintra inquiry. For weeks he had not felt much like socialising, but Senhor Barroso had personally asked him to attend the ball and Rowena had told him to go.

“You cannot sit by my bedside constantly Paul, and I am so much better. I’m looking forward to the day I can attend a ball with you.”

Paul reached out and placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re having a relapse,” he said gravely. “I’ve never before heard you say you were looking forward to a party.”

“I always look forward to dancing with you.”

“I’ve missed dancing with you too, my angel. I will go. Barroso is a good old stick and has been so generous to us while you’ve been ill. I think he’s a bit in love with you to be honest. I’d like to catch up on the gossip. I miss Wellesley. Anything could be happening and I wouldn’t know about it. It’s so frustrating.”

She gave a little laugh and reached out her hand. He took it, noticing how thin she had become. “Poor Paul. Don’t worry about it. I predict that Sir Arthur will be gloriously exonerated and sent back to save Portugal.”

“I admire your optimism, love, but he’s just as likely to be sent to South America. Never mind. Get plenty of rest and I’ll tell you all the gossip in the morning. It’s a sign that I don’t have enough to do that I’m genuinely curious about this story that poor Barroso’s widowed daughter is disgracing herself with a British officer. I wonder who it is? Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

“As long as it isn’t you, Paul.”

Paul felt a little frisson of surprised guilt. Rowena never taxed him with his occasional lapses and although her tone was joking, even the fact that she had mentioned it bothered him. He leaned over and kissed her fully on the lips.

“I promise, angel. Go to sleep and get well. I need you. You know that.”

Walking back to the villa much later, Paul reviewed the evening. He had a slightly guilty feeling that he had behaved badly but he decided he did not care. He did not really have much interest in the beautiful but wayward Widow da Sousa apart from a sense of gratitude to her father and stepmother, who had proved an unexpected source of support during Rowena’s illness. The opportunity to annoy Captain Cecil Welby of the 9th Dragoon Guards, however, was always irresistible.

Welby was four years older than Paul. They had met at Eton and for two years the older boy had done his best to make the lives of Paul and his friends miserable. He had not really succeeded. Paul had received a few beatings but had quickly learned how to defend himself and became an expert at getting some of the more amiable older boys on his side. A practical joke gone wrong had led to the expulsion of both Paul and Welby and their paths had not crossed again until an unexpected meeting at a reception in London. At that point they had been of equal rank; both captains although Welby’s was of longer standing.

Paul had often found that past antagonisms faded with time. That had not been the case with Welby. By that time, Paul was on his way up, high in the favour of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Welby’s career in the cavalry seemed to have stalled, with one or two unsavoury rumours about his conduct following him from one posting to another. Paul loathed army gossip, having been on the receiving end of it himself on a number of occasions, but he was prepared to make an exception in Welby’s case. The man had no redeeming qualities that he could find.

They had met a few times after that, in the shifting world of army life. Paul had not even thought of Welby when he received his promotion to major, purchased over more experienced men at an exorbitant cost. He had not regretted it though and thought he was doing a good job. The sight of Welby, still bearing the insignia of a captain, was a purely childish pleasure. Still, he would not have bothered to make the most of it had Welby not been behaving so badly with Senhor Barroso’s daughter.

Paul wondered about Lieutenant Ataíde. He had seen the man’s face at Welby’s behaviour and suspected that he had an interest in the girl. Paul thought it a pity. He had talked for a long time after supper with Ataíde and was very impressed. Wellesley had spoken with him about the management of the Portuguese army and Paul thought that Ataíde had just the right blend of courage and intelligence to ensure a brilliant future. He intended to make sure that whoever took over the task of commanding and training the disorganised Portuguese forces knew all about Jaime Ataíde.

Unfortunately, Paul did not think that Dona Inés would be much of an asset to a young officer eager for promotion. Still, that was not his business and he had no intention of making it so. The best he could do for his new acquaintance was to make sure that Welby could do no further damage to her reputation. After that, Ataíde was on his own.

A combination of a late night, weeks of stress and more wine than usual meant that Paul awoke late the following morning. Rowena was curled up in his arms, still deeply asleep. He lay holding her, thinking back over the previous night, and felt an overwhelming sense of content. The emotional storms of the past year had left him brittle and unsettled but lying here holding Rowena, he felt simple happiness and an enormous relief that she had been spared.

Apart from his regular visits to barracks and to the hospital ward where the remaining sick men from his battalion were slowly recovering, Paul spent the next weeks at Rowena’s side. Her recovery seemed to be faster now. She spent more and more time out of bed, dined with him each evening and insisted on going out for gentle walks to regain her strength.

Paul fussed over her in a way that many women would have found irritating but Rowena seemed to enjoy it. He consulted with the cook about dishes to tempt her appetite and hired a gig to take her driving in the fresh air. He continued to ignore the growing pile of invitations until he received a visit from Lieutenant Carl Swanson who was his boyhood friend and one of his most trusted officers.

“Are you going to the headquarters reception tomorrow, sir?”

“I wasn’t planning to. I thought I’d drive along the coast road with Rowena and then have an early dinner at that place on the quay. They serve superb seafood and it will be the first time we’ve eaten out since…why? Should I be there?”

“It depends on whether the situation with Welby bothers you. He’s back with Dona Inés – all over her in fact. I feel sorry for her father and brothers. They’re furious but they’ve no idea what to do. He’s a British officer.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! How did that arsehole suddenly become my problem?”

“It’s really not, sir. It’s just that there’s nobody to intervene. He has no commanding officer in Lisbon, while he’s waiting for orders. I think Barroso would like to complain but has no idea who to speak to.”

“Given that the woman is her own mistress, her father can’t really complain at all. If I thought the matter was just down to stupidity, I’d be inclined to allow nature to take its course, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“Why is it?” Carl asked. “Because it’s Welby?”

“Carl, I only have to look at Welby to want to punch him. That’s hardly a secret. But he doesn’t serve in my battalion and isn’t really my business. It’s just that…”

“Sir?”

“I took her into supper that evening just to annoy Welby. He can’t punch me, I’m a senior officer. But I very quickly realised that she was very drunk. I think he pours wine into her on every possible occasion and I’m afraid it’s clouding her judgement. I’m all in favour of a woman making her own choices, but to do that successfully she needs to be stone cold sober. I don’t like the look of this. I’ve just been trying to ignore it.”

Carl looked appalled. “Christ, Paul, are you serious? Do her family know?”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t live with them. They think she’s just doing this to defy them and I think there’s something in that. I had a long talk with Ataíde and he seems to think they shovelled her into a marriage with an unpleasant older man. She probably has reason to be furious. But if she thinks she’s going to solve the problem with bloody Cecil Welby, she’s very much mistaken. If he’s planning marriage, she’ll be miserable. If he’s planning seduction, she’ll be ruined. And don’t even bother to ask me why I care.”

His friend was smiling. “I don’t need to, sir.”

“Oh fuck off, Swanson. I want to be with my wife.”

“I can see that, sir. I don’t blame you. Look, I’d try to help, but Welby is senior to me and…”

“No, don’t. You can’t go near it. It has to be me.”

“It doesn’t have to be you. Sergeant O’Reilly and Private Carter are bored to tears. Just find out where he’s billeted and I’m sure they would…”

“Stop!” Paul put his hands over his ears. “I’m not listening, Swanson. And as a parson’s son, you should be bloody ashamed of yourself, putting that idea into my head. All right, I’ll go to the blasted reception but I don’t want to leave Rowena on her own. Do you think you could…?”

“I’ll take her for a drive, sir. As long as Captain Wheeler goes to the reception to make sure you behave yourself. Although he’d probably rather swap.”

“Don’t tell him. He can pull rank on you. Carl…am I over-reacting to this? Because of Welby?”

“I don’t think so. I know how much you dislike him. But I genuinely think he’s trying to take advantage of that poor woman.”

“For some reason I’ve been thinking a lot about Will Cathcart these past weeks. I suppose it’s meeting Welby. Remembering our school days. I can recall the first time I saw Cathcart. His face was in the mud on the west field, with Welby’s foot on the back of his head. I remember running at Welby so hard with my head in his midriff that he couldn’t speak for fifteen minutes. We never really got on after that.”

Carl laughed aloud. “Paul, you’re not thirteen any more. You don’t need to do that.”

“No, I know. At least, the methods are different. I still can’t believe Will is dead. I was in Naples when I got the news. Fucking yellow fever. He was one of the best men I knew. Still, if he was here now, he’d tell me to stop making excuses about the girl and deal with Welby. Whatever her problems, no woman deserves that. I just hope it doesn’t end with her marrying Lieutenant Ataíde. He can do a lot better. All right, Lieutenant. You’re in charge of my wife for the evening. Don’t run off with her.”

“I’ll try to remember that, sir,” Carl said seriously. Paul looked around for something to throw at him but his wife was clearly feeling better and had tidied up.

***

British army headquarters was located in the Palácio de Calhariz on the corner of the Rua do Loreto. The original palace had been mostly destroyed during the earthquake of 1755 and had been rebuilt on elegant lines. The reception rooms were already crowded when Jaime arrived and he paused to speak to several Portuguese officers before making his way into the throng.

During the past weeks, with no formal duties, Jaime had spent time working on his language skills. His English was improving and he spent long hours studying. It seemed clear that however the war progressed, Britain and Portugal were likely to be allies, hopefully fighting together, and he wanted to be able to speak freely to his fellow officers. It gave him something to do and he was delighted to test the results as he moved through the crowd, picking up snatches of conversation.

Major van Daan had been noticeably absent from most social events over the past few weeks but Jaime had been surprised and very flattered to twice receive an invitation to dine with him privately. Mrs van Daan had not been present and the Major received his guest’s concerned enquiries about her health with a grin.

“She’s very much better, thank you. Her absence is not due to ill-health, it’s because I wanted to talk to you properly and her French isn’t up to the job. Also she’s hiding; she hates entertaining. I do want to introduce you at some point though. You’ll like her. How’s your English coming along?”

They conversed in a mixture of both languages and Jaime appreciated the opportunity to practice. The conversation ranged over a wide variety of topics, both military and political. Jaime was somewhat dazzled by his host’s knowledge of current affairs both at home and throughout Europe. He realised that Van Daan’s background of both trade and aristocracy, his friendship with the absent Wellesley, and his circle of acquaintances in and out of the army gave him an understanding of what was happening in Portugal which outstripped most of the local grandees.

Jaime was delighted with his new acquaintance and tried hard to hide how flattered he was. He was not sure what had made Paul van Daan’s attention light upon him but he had a suspicion that it could only be good for his future career and the faintly envious teasing of some of his friends suggested that they thought the same thing.

He had given up expecting to meet Van Daan in public while his wife was not well enough to accompany him but he was pleased to see Lieutenant Barroso at the centre of a group of officers and several of the younger ladies present. As Jaime approached them, he saw that Joana Guida was there and he made his way to her side, bowing over her hand. He had become firm friends with the outspoken Senhorita Guida during the past month.

Joana returned his greeting pleasantly but Jaime was immediately aware of a strained atmosphere. Barroso’s face was thunderous and there was a whisper of gossip among some of the others. Jaime looked at Joana and raised his eyebrows.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. I am not sure. Lieutenant, would it be possible to take a turn about the room with me? We cannot speak freely here.”

She spoke in an undertone, not much above a whisper. Jaime offered her his arm.

“Of course. Let’s walk through to the terrace. Nobody will be there, it’s too chilly.”

They made their way through the rooms, stopping to speak to others only when obliged to. As Jaime had suspected, the terrace drawing room was deserted. During the summer, when the long glass doors were open, it was a favourite spot for courting couples or men wanting a place for quiet conversation. In December, the windows were firmly closed against a grey cloudy sky and the room was unoccupied apart from two elderly Portuguese generals by the door who seemed to be engaged in reminiscing about better days. They gave Jaime and his companion a disapproving glance but moved to the other side of the door as though they suspected the worst.

“That is General Leandres, my Godfather,” Joana said. “He will probably report back to my mother that I am making assignations with handsome young officers.”

Jaime was startled. “I’m sorry. Should we go back? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Oh don’t worry, she won’t take any notice. She will pretend not to believe him but to be honest, she would probably be pleased to hear that I am taking an interest. I’m sorry to have kidnapped you, Lieutenant Ataíde. I’m worried about Inés.”

Jaime was aware of a flash of irritation; not with his companion but with her flighty friend. It seemed to him that Joana spent far too much of her time worrying about Inés da Sousa and he would have preferred to talk about something more interesting. Still, he had never known Joana to be overly dramatic and it was clear that something was bothering her.

“Has something new happened?” he asked. “I could see that her brother looked as though he wanted to shoot somebody. Honestly, that girl is a nuisance. I’ve never been keen on the custom of young widows being expected to stay at home but in her case it would have been a blessing. Is it Welby again?”

“Yes. And when I am less anxious, Lieutenant, I would like to have a conversation with you about why it is always the woman’s fault when something like this happens. Has it not occurred to you that Captain Welby should bear some responsibility?”

Her voice was frosty and Jaime realised he had blundered badly. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean…at least, I probably did mean it. It’s what I was always taught. But I think you are right. Certainly Major van Daan seems to think that it is Welby’s behaviour that is at fault here.”

“It is a pity we see so little of Major van Daan, since he appears to be the only man able to see what is happening and willing to take appropriate action. She is not at all herself, Lieutenant and I’m very worried about her. But today…”

She broke off, studying him from those beautiful golden eyes. They reminded Jaime of a rather lovely cat. He realised that he was staring into them like an idiot and not responding like a sensible man. It was obvious to him that in the absence of Major van Daan, he was the best Joana had managed to come up with in her choice of an ally and he wanted to impress her so he tore his gaze away and asked:

“What has happened, Senhorita? Are they here? I did not see either of them as I came in.”

“She was with me earlier. I thought she seemed different. More subdued. I was beginning to hope that they had quarrelled. And I think they might have. Only then he arrived and took her away and now I cannot find either of them. She cannot have left with him, I am sure. She always brings a companion to these events, to chaperone her.”

Jaime had never seen any sign of a chaperone and said so. His companion gave him a look.

“She employs an older cousin to live with her. Dona Luisa is usually to be found in a quiet room with her own friends, lamenting the wild behaviour of young girls today. You will note that she makes no attempt to prevent such wild behaviour, she just complains about it. Dona Luisa is still here but I cannot find Inés or Captain Welby. Lieutenant Barroso is beginning to talk very ominously about challenges and shooting the Captain dead. His father is not here today fortunately, he is laid up with the gout. Otherwise I am afraid there would already have been a scene. I need to find them but I don’t know what to do. Lieutenant, I know this is not your problem and you must be very bored with me by now, but…”

Jaime took her hand and kissed it. “I don’t think I could ever be bored by you, Senhorita. I am very bored with Dona Inés and her unpleasant suitor, but I will help in any way that I can. Not for their sakes but for yours. Do you seriously think she has sneaked off with him somewhere?”

Joana did not speak for a moment. Jaime realised her cheeks had gone very pink. She withdrew her hand gently from his.

“I don’t think they will have left the palace, though they might be in the garden I suppose. She has behaved very foolishly a few times recently but I think that has been because she is…because he…at times I believe she has been under the influence of too much wine. That cannot be true today unless he has brought it with him. There is never much to drink at Sir John Cradock’s receptions.”

“For today at least, I think we may be grateful for Sir John’s parsimony,” Jaime said gravely. “Let me take you back to your friends, Senhorita, then I’ll begin to search. I didn’t notice them in the public rooms but then I wasn’t looking for them. I’ll do another walk through and if they’re not to be found I’ll try the garden. It’s not very big, they can hardly hide out there.”

“May I come with you?”

Jaime hesitated. “Senhorita, I would welcome your company but I’m a little concerned about your own situation. Presumably you are here with a chaperone of your own, but…”

She gave a brief smile. “I am here with the Cuestas as usual so Dona Isabela is my nominal chaperone but she will be found with Dona Luisa and the rest of the old cats and will not care at all what I do. If we find them, Lieutenant, it will be far easier for me to intervene and draw her away than for you. The Captain may not like me – indeed he loathes me – but he can hardly challenge me or try to provoke me to challenge him. Please.”

After a moment Jaime nodded and held out his hand. She took it with a look of pure gratitude which unexpectedly made this whole exasperating affair worthwhile.

They went through the reception rooms with military precision, checking every distant corner but there was no sign of the errant couple. From there, Jaime led her down a deserted corridor and through a dusty conservatory into a small but lush garden. It had begun to rain again, a fine misty drizzle. Jaime left Joana in the conservatory  with instructions to remain dry and jogged up and down the maze of paths, peering between shrubs and trees. The place was deserted. Jaime was not surprised. A Lisbon garden on a wet December day was not the place for either romance or seduction.

He re-joined Joana, brushing raindrops from his uniform. “Nothing there. I can’t work out where they’ve gone but if they’ve left, one of the sentries must know. Look, Senhorita, I realise that asking questions might cause gossip but I am beginning to feel genuinely concerned. I thought we would find them holding hands in some dim corner but if he has really persuaded her to leave with him, this is a lot more serious. You’re her friend. I’ll abide by your wishes, but if it was my sister, I’d want somebody to do something at this point.”

She looked very pale but there was a determined set to her jaw. “Yes. Yes, of course. You are right, Lieutenant.”

“Should I involve her brother?”

“Not yet. The sentries are English. I speak very little but I know you have been studying hard. Do you think you will be able…?”

“Yes, I think so. As long as they don’t ask any difficult questions, which they probably won’t given that I wear an officer’s uniform. I wasn’t expecting this to be the first real test of my English lessons, but let’s try. Come on.”

There were four sentries on the outer door of the palace and two more on the inner door, which led to the first reception room. Jaime approached one of these with a thumping heart and recited his carefully rehearsed question about his missing friends. He tried to make it sound light-hearted, as though the whole thing was in the nature of a practical joke.

It seemed to work, as the tall sergeant relaxed a little though he did not exactly smile.

“I think I understand, sir. Wouldn’t want the young lady to get into any trouble. I don’t think I’ve seen them leave, but with your permission, I can ask my lads on the side door. I wouldn’t have seen anyone going through that way. Just one moment.”

Jaime waited, giving Joana a reassuring smile. He did not think she had understood much of the exchange. He was pleased at how well he had managed and silently thanked Major van Daan’s patient willingness to allow him to practice.

The Sergeant’s voice raised in an impressive bellow and after a moment, a younger man appeared from the far side of the broad staircase. He was dressed differently to his Sergeant, in the dark green of the Rifles. Jaime wondered how he came to be under the command of an NCO from another regiment. He looked back at the Sergeant’s red jacket with pale grey facings and realised suddenly that the uniform was familiar and that the Sergeant must be from the 110th. Van Daan had told him that with limited troops in Lisbon at present, all regiments took turns at sentry duty.

“Private Carter, I’ve a question for you. We’ve a missing lady and an officer in a red coat and this gentleman would like them found before there’s a scandal. Seen anything?”

There was a significant pause. The Sergeant put his head on one side and gave a deep sigh.

“Carter, don’t piss me off, it’s been a long day and I’m already bored with it. It’s not your job to play patsy for some randy bastard chasing a bit of Portuguese skirt.”

“Not even if it’s the Major, Sarge?”

“Especially if it’s the Major, you cheeky bastard. What do you know? Spill the beans or I’ll crack your head for you.”

Private Carter seemed entirely unabashed. He grinned. “Nothing to do with me, sir, but I did see an officer slipping what looked like a large tip to one of the servants earlier. Wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but I recognised him.”

“Who was it and what was it for?”

“Captain Welby, sir. I thought at the time that it’s a good thing the Major’s not here. It wasn’t hard to work out what he was after because his Portuguese is almost as bad as mine, and I don’t speak a word. He wanted the boy to unlock the library door for him.”

“The library?” the Sergeant said. All laughter had gone. “Where is this library?”

“On the next floor, Sarge. Up the main staircase and left, but you can get to it from the servant’s stairs, down this way.”

“How do you know all this, Carter?”

“I’m nosy, sir.”

“Good man.” The Sergeant turned towards Jaime, who was already moving, his eyes on Private Carter.

“Can you show me?”

“Yes, sir. What about the lady?”

Jaime looked at Joana. “Senhorita, you should remain with the Sergeant until…”

“Do not be ridiculous. I am coming with you, it is why I came in the first place. Hurry, Lieutenant.”

Jaime froze in agonised uncertainty and looked from the Sergeant to Private Carter. Carter came to attention and executed a perfect salute.

“Didn’t understand what she said, sir, but I can tell you she’s got no intention of staying here. You can just tell, like.”

Jaime nodded and gestured. Carter sped down a dim service corridor and up a wooden staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time with Jaime and Joana racing to keep up.

Carter stopped beside a door in the corridor above. “That’s it, sir. I think they’re in there, I can hear voices. I’ll step back now, but I’ll be just at the top of the stairs. Call if you need me.”

He melted away and Jaime put his hand on the doorknob. Before he could open it, Joana pulled his arm away.

“No. I will go first. We agreed.”

“We do not know what is happening.”

“We are about to find out. The door will be open, you can come to my rescue if necessary. I am a woman; he will not attack me. Please, Lieutenant. Step back.”

Jaime obeyed reluctantly. Joana took a deep breath and opened the door wide. Jaime could see nothing but he could hear every word.

Welby spoke first. Jaime did not recognise the word but he knew it was an oath and probably extremely vulgar. Joana probably recognised the fury in his voice but she did not hesitate.

“There you are, Inés. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m sorry to interrupt, but you had better come back downstairs. Your brother is in one of his great fusses and very soon he will start shouting at Dona Luisa which will make her cry. Goodness, whatever have you done to your hair? Did you go out into the garden earlier? It’s very windy out there. I went out for two minutes with Lieutenant Ataíde, but it was far too wet and cold. Here, come and sit down and let me tidy you up before we go down. Oh, Captain Welby. How do you do?”

Jaime was lost in admiration of her artless prattle, since it was something she would never normally have done. He could only imagine the scene she was trying to cover up and silently thanked God that whatever Welby had intended had clearly not gone too far. He also thanked God for Joana’s courage and common sense. If he had burst into the room to find Inés da Sousa in an apparently compromising situation he would have felt obliged to either issue a challenge or at the very least, inform her brother to give him the chance to do so. Joana’s superb social skills looked likely to avert the entire scandal.

Welby swore again. Jaime wondered how much of Joana’s speech he understood. He could hear the murmured voices of both girls now, talking nonsense about hairstyles and bad weather, as though nothing unusual had occurred. All Welby needed to do was leave and the thing was done. Jaime slipped silently back behind the open door where the cavalry officer would be unlikely to notice him as he left. He heard Welby’s boots on wooden boards and saw his tall shadow in the doorway. Then Welby stopped and turned. He spoke in surprisingly fluent French.

“Have it your own way, Inés. There’s a name for a woman who invites a man to a private room with her and then turns coy at the last minute and by the time I’ve finished with your reputation there won’t be a house in Lisbon where you’ll be received. After all, just because this little bitch walked in on us this time, who’s to say there haven’t been others?”

Inés gave a little sob of protest. Jaime felt his entire body go rigid with anger. Before he could respond, Joana spoke.

“You are not a gentleman, Captain Welby. Please leave and be thankful that Dona Inés’ brother was not present. Do not approach my friend again.”

Welby gave a crack of laughter. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, you whey-faced little tart and I don’t suppose you understand me any better. Who knows, I might have a try at you next, once the dust is settled. You don’t have her face or her fortune but your figure isn’t bad and you’d do well enough with the lights off. It’s the only chance you’re likely to have to find out what to do with a man, you…”

It had taken Jaime that long to reach him. He swung his fist and the other man reeled backwards, taken completely by surprise. Blood spurted from his nose. He put his hand up to feel it, looking astonished, then he straightened and raised his fists.

“You filthy little Portuguese bastard. I’m going to make you wish you’d stayed with fucking Bonaparte. By the time I’ve finished with you…”

He advanced on Jaime who stood ready to defend himself but the blow never materialised. Instead a tall, wiry form inserted itself between them and a raised arm absorbed Welby’s attempted punch.

“Captain Welby, I think you’re forgetting yourself,” Private Carter said. He spoke at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. “Come on now, sir, you can’t start a brawl at headquarters. You’ll get yourself court martialled; all the senior staff are downstairs.”

“Get out of my way, scum!” Welby roared.

“Step aside, Private,” Jaime said. He was utterly enraged and desperate to hit Welby again.

“I’m not moving, sir and I can hear Sergeant O’Reilly on the stairs now. It’s our duty to keep the peace at headquarters today and we’re going to do it, one way or another. Lieutenant, think about it. It’s your job to get the ladies out of here as quietly as possible. Get on with it, will you? There’s a good gentleman.”

Jaime took a deep painful breath and turned. The two women stood just inside the room. Both looked terrified. Inés da Sousa had been crying and her dishevelled appearance chilled Jaime and brought him abruptly to his senses. He realised with cold shock that he and Joana might possibly have interrupted something rather more serious than a clumsy attempt at seduction.

“Of course,” he said, stepping back. “Senhorita Guida, I know this is unorthodox, but I think perhaps I should take Dona Inés home, if you would accompany us. She cannot go back to the reception like that.”

“Thank you,” Joana said with passionate gratitude. “I will run to find Dona Isabela and tell her Inés is unwell. She will lend us her carriage and I can send it back afterwards.”

“Good girl,” Jaime said, with a poor attempt at a smile. He could see the tall Sergeant coming along the corridor towards him. “Come along, Dona Inés. We’ll find somewhere quiet for you to wait.” 

He glanced at Carter who was waiting patiently and summoned up his English again, reflecting that this was not the practice he had expected today. “Private Carter, is there a room where the ladies can wait while I arrange their carriage?”

“There’s a little anteroom that’s private, sir,” Carter said. He had not taken his eyes off Welby. “My Sergeant can take over here now and I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, Private. You are a credit to your regiment.”

“Thank you, sir. Maybe you’ll mention that to the Major when he bawls me out for getting into trouble again. I’d be grateful.”

Jaime took Inés’ arm and Joana went to her other side. The girl was shivering violently with what Jaime suspected was shock. Joana seemed remarkably calm and he thanked God that she had probably not understood much of Welby’s threats to herself. They took a few steps down the corridor and the Sergeant moved to stand between Jaime and Welby. Private Carter saluted and moved ahead to lead the way.

“Ataíde,” Welby called out. He had reverted to French. “You’re a lily-livered coward and a traitor. I’ll just bet you didn’t leave the French army of your own accord. I’ll bet they kicked you out once they realised how useless you were. As for that little bitch you’re running around with, you’d better keep a close eye on her. I’ve a score to settle.”

Joana spun around. “If you come within an inch of me, Captain Welby, I will stab you myself,” she said in surprisingly clear schoolgirl French. “Good day.”

Jaime was so surprised he let go of Inés’ arm. He stared at Joana. “I did not realise you spoke French. If I’d known…”

“Not very well, Lieutenant. But well enough to know when I am being threatened and insulted by something I would be likely to scrape off  my shoe on a hot day.” Joana shot a scornful look in the direction of Welby. “Let him try it,” she said very clearly, once again in French.

Jaime could not take his eyes from her. He had completely forgotten about Inés da Sousa. “I don’t think he would dare,” he said frankly. “I know I wouldn’t.”

Joana took her friend’s arm again. “Come, Inés. Let’s get you home.”

They were halfway down the corridor when Welby shouted after them.

“Ataíde, you’ll meet me for this. I’m calling you out, you cowardly bastard.”

Jaime glanced back. “At a time and place of your choosing,” he said, surprised at how easily the words came. “Send a message.”

***

Paul arrived at the reception into the middle of a swell of excited rumour which was spreading through the room and had clearly already reached General Sir John Cradock.

Cradock was a civilised man of around fifty who was making the best of his rather tenuous position commanding the Lisbon garrison while Moore advanced into Spain. Paul liked him on a personal level but disagreed with his pessimistic view of the British chances of success in the Iberian peninsula and thought that Cradock was only too aware that he was going to be replaced as soon as possible by a man with more determination. Paul was very much hoping it would be Wellesley, but his chief first had to shake off the threat of the Cintra inquiry.

Cradock must have been on the lookout for Paul. He summoned him with a gesture before Paul had been able to get any sensible account of what had happened earlier. Paul saluted and Cradock led him through into a private parlour, closed the door and stationed a sentry to refuse entry to all.

“Have you any idea what is going on, Van Daan?” he demanded.

“None at all, sir. I only arrived fifteen minutes ago and if I’d known I was walking into this, I’d have stayed at home with my wife,” Paul said promptly. He was faintly indignant at the implication that the current scandal had anything to do with him and decided to conveniently ignore his own very public intervention in Captain Welby’s love life at a previous party. “What happened?”

“I can get no sense out of anybody and I am furious that it should have occurred at my headquarters and involves an officer of this army.”

“Well I understand your point of view, sir, but nothing is ever going to surprise me about Cecil Welby. Do I gather Lieutenant Ataíde was involved?”

“I believe so, although he has already left. I was then faced by the woman’s chaperone who became hysterical and her brother who was threatening to shoot people. I have never experienced such a thing in my long career. Shocking how little self-control these Latin people have over their emotions.”

Paul managed not to point out that the instigator of the trouble was in fact wholly English. He tried to look sympathetic as Cradock continued to rage but cut in abruptly as something caught his attention.

“Sorry, sir, what was that about the sentries? How were they involved? My men are on duty here this week.”

“That is possibly true, Van Daan, but common soldiers are hardly likely to have any understanding of either French or Portuguese so they will not be able to…”

“That depends on who was involved. May I speak to my Sergeant, sir?”

Cradock waved an irritable hand. “Do so. And get hold of young Ataíde and Welby. You know both of them. Make sure they understand that I will have no duelling under my command.”

Paul managed not to give an unhelpful reply, saluted and left in search of his Irish Sergeant.

He found O’Reilly with Private Carter at the end of the service corridor. Both sprang to attention and saluted.

“Where can we speak privately?” Paul demanded.

“Through here, sir. It’s where we’re putting all enraged officers and outraged ladies this week.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Sergeant, I’m not in the mood.” Paul closed the door and surveyed them. “What the hell happened? Do you know?”

“We’ve something of an idea, sir. It was Carter involved at the start. We’ve been talking about it, trying to put it all together. Some of it’s guesswork. Neither of us speak any French. I understand a bit of Portuguese now, sir. On account of Carlota.”

“Is that the brunette or the redhead?”

“The redhead, sir. The brunette was Maria.”

“Don’t tell me. My head hurts.”

“As if you’ve never got confused,” O’Reilly said darkly. Carter gave a small splutter of laughter, hastily suppressed. Paul glared at both of them.

“Tell me.”

“Well sir, from what we can tell, Captain Welby bribed one of the servants to let him use the library upstairs for a romantic tryst with a lady. Somehow the young Portuguese gentleman…Ataíde, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow he found out and was searching the whole of headquarters to find them. Carter here had seen the Captain handing over the bribe in exchange for the key earlier. He told Lieutenant Ataíde and showed him where the room was.”

“Good decision, Carter. I’m curious though – how the hell did you all manage to understand one another?”

“Mr Ataíde managed it in English, sir. He did quite well. Must have been practising. Once the Lieutenant and his friend broke into the room though, it all got a bit confusing. I could hear French, English and Portuguese and I think all of it involved a lot of cursing. I came to find out what was going on. Mr Ataíde had punched the Captain and the Captain was about to start a brawl. I got between them and then the Sergeant came up and we managed to get them separated. Mr Ataíde took the ladies home and the Captain stormed off.”

“How noisy was it?”

“Too noisy,” O’Reilly said briefly. “We were able to tell people honestly that we had no idea what it was all about as we couldn’t understand their language but some of the servants heard enough to realise that a challenge had been given and accepted.”

“Bugger,” Paul said distinctly. He eyed Carter thoughtfully. “Are you all right, Carter? You said you got into the middle of it.”

“Yes, sir. My arm’s a bit numb where Welby…I mean the Captain punched it. But I didn’t hit anybody, I swear it.”

“I don’t much care if you did. Welby can hardly bloody complain, given the rumpus he’s kicked up. Christ, what a mess. The worst of it is that he doesn’t even have a commanding officer here at the moment and blasted Cradock seems determined to land this whole thing on me. He must have been taking lessons from Wellesley. I wonder if they’ve been corresponding? I can just imagine it now. ‘Should any particularly difficult problems arise during my necessary absence in London, feel free to place them in the lap of Major van Daan. He is entirely accustomed to this.’ Stop laughing O’Reilly, this is not bloody funny.”

“He wasn’t laughing at the time, sir,” Carter said soberly. “Nor was I.”

Paul paused, studying the other man. “Was she all right?” he asked, suddenly conscious that he had not enquired.

“No, sir.”

Paul felt a little chill. “When you say she wasn’t all right, exactly what are we talking about here? I thought we were discussing a romantic tryst.”

“I don’t know how far it went, sir, but I’ve come across women who’ve been through that kind of romantic tryst in my time in the army and that’s not the word I’d use. Nor you, if you’d seen her. The other lady made a good job of tidying her up, mind, but she’d been pulled about a fair bit and I don’t think she enjoyed it, poor lass.”

Paul’s temper exploded. “I should have fucking known!” he roared. “Fucking Welby! When I get my hands on him, I am going to rip his fucking head off! Stand down, Sergeant O’Reilly, Private Carter. My thanks for your intelligent assistance in this.”

He threw open the door. As he expected, he heard his Sergeant’s voice raised in protest.

“Sir, calm down. I think Sir John Cradock wants you to solve the problem, not make it worse.”

Paul did not bother to turn back. “I am going to solve the problem, Sergeant,” he snapped, over his shoulder. “And I know just where to start.”

***

Welby was not in his billet. Paul spent a fruitless two hours searching every tavern he could think of and interrogating Welby’s known friends but he found no trace of him. Eventually he went home to Rowena, his mind fretting at the problem. Tomorrow he would visit Lieutenant Ataíde to see if he could shake any information out of the young Portuguese officer. Paul perfectly understood Ataíde’s desire to end Welby’s life, but he was not prepared to see Ataíde ruin his future career in such a pointless cause.

He was also a little concerned about what might happen in such a duel. Welby was an excellent shot and not a bad swordsman. Paul could not work out who had challenged whom but he was very sure that if Welby fought at all he would be willing to kill his opponent. Paul liked Ataíde and was worried about him.

There was nothing more he could do tonight and he tried to set the problem to one side and focus on Rowena who was fretting to return to her normal activities. They drank wine and played cards for fabulous imaginary sums until he saw her eyelids drooping. Then he led her firmly to their room and she fell asleep almost immediately, curled up in his arms. He lay for a while, appreciating the miracle of her recovery and drifted into sleep more easily than he had expected.

It was still dark when he awoke and he lay still for a moment, his heart pounding. The sound came again; a gentle but definite tap on the door. Paul got up and went to investigate. Stepping into the corridor, he found Jenson, his orderly, wrapped up in his old greatcoat against the cold night.

“Sorry to wake you, sir. Mr Swanson is downstairs. He says it’s urgent.”

Visions of a new outbreak of the deadly camp fever in barracks filled Paul’s mind. He swore softly and slipped back into the room to dress. Rowena stirred in her sleep and murmured his name and he went to kiss her.

“I’m needed in barracks, angel. Go back to sleep.”

When he was dressed he went down into the kitchen where Carl Swanson waited with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Jenson brought another cup for Paul. He sipped the bitter liquid, trying to clear his foggy brain.

“What’s happened, Carl? Is somebody ill?”

“No, sir. Everything is fine in barracks. Look, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you or not but I had a feeling you’d want to know. Nick Barry came in from a night on the town with the news that there’s a duel being fought at dawn today, in the parkland beyond the cathedral.”

Paul was suddenly wide awake. He set down the cup and went to the water jug. Pouring cold water into the bowl he splashed his face, scrubbing at it with his hands to try to drive the remnants of sleep away.

“Where’s Jenson?”

“Gone to the stables, I think.”

“Good. Thank you, Mr Swanson. You can stand down now. Go back to bed.”

“I’m coming with you, sir.”

Paul shook his head decidedly. “Not a chance. I’ve no idea what I’m going to find when I get there but this has the potential to be a very messy scandal and I want the rest of my officers a long way away from it. Jenson will come with me in case I get lost in the dark. Back to barracks, Mr Swanson. That’s an order.”

It was quiet in the streets of Lisbon. The rain had stopped and there was a faint pearly light hovering above them which suggested the first hint of dawn. Paul walked his horse over unpaved and cobbled streets. An occasional lantern lighted a doorway but for the most part it was inky black. He could hear the clinking of harness from Jenson’s horse, riding a little behind him. After a while he realised he could hear something else. He reined in.

“Jenson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How far back is he?”

Jenson twisted his body in the saddle. “I can just about see him, sir.”

“Well I can’t yell from here, I’ll wake up the entire neighbourhood. Ride back and tell him to get up here, will you?”

Jenson obeyed. Within a few minutes, Lieutenant Carl Swanson appeared out of the darkness and walked his horse to where Paul waited. Paul saw his hand move in a salute. He growled.

“Don’t bother, Lieutenant. I can’t fucking see you anyway. Take the lead. Your night vision is better than mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Swanson? When we get there I want you to stay back out of sight. This might be a false alarm and nothing to do with me, but I want you out of it. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

“You are such a bloody liar, Swanson. You’re going to ignore everything I say. As usual.”

The parkland lay just beyond the dark outline of the cathedral. It was not a large area and was heavily wooded, with mostly oak and beech trees. A winding path led between the trees and they went in single file with Carl in the lead. Here there were no lights at all but it was becoming easier to see, which suggested that dawn was not far off. There was no sign of anybody else and Paul wondered if this whole thing was a wild goose chase and if the duel was happening somewhere else or not at all. As he drew closer to a copse of tall pine trees however, he heard a noise and reined in. The other two men stopped on either side of him and they listened.

“It sounds as though Barry was right,” Carl said in matter-of-fact tones.

“Yes.” Paul dismounted and handed the reins to his orderly. “Wait here, both of you. I’ll yell if I need you. Otherwise stay out of sight. I mean it, Mr Swanson.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul walked through the trees, making as little noise as possible. Just before the tree line he stopped and took out his pistol, checking methodically to make sure that it was properly loaded. He was hoping he would not need it but he had no idea what he would find.

As he drew closer he realised that it did not matter how much noise he made. The duel was fully underway. They had chosen swords and the clash of steel on steel was obscenely loud in the still morning air. Paul began to run. They had not waited until full dawn and he wondered how on earth they could see what they were doing in this light.

He broke through the trees and stopped. There was a wide open area, still deeply shadowed. Two men in shirt-sleeves moved swiftly across the damp grass, feet slipping slightly in the dew. He could not see either of them properly but knew them from the height and breadth of the Englishman and the slighter wiry form of the Portuguese. They were both breathing heavily. Neither appeared to notice Paul’s appearance.

Paul did not move. On the far side of the clearing, several horses were tied to the low branches of an oak tree. There were two other men present, both wrapped in heavy cloaks. Paul supposed they must be the seconds, necessary for any affair of honour. There should also have been a surgeon. Paul could see no sign of one, which bothered him, because even in the pre-dawn light he could see blood on one shoulder of Jaime Ataíde’s shirt.

It suggested that there was no agreement that the duel should end at first blood. Paul watched for a moment, trying to work out the best way to intervene. He could fire his pistol into the air, but if one man stopped and the other did not, it could end in murder. He could not shoot at either of the combatants in this poor light or he could end up murdering one of them himself. Exasperated he uncocked his pistol and put it away. He stood poised for a moment, trying desperately to think of a way to end it. Before he could do so however, one of the two spectators looked up and saw him.

Paul made a frantic gesture for silence but he was too late. The man started, opened his mouth and yelled.

“I say, Welby, stand down. Senior officer on the parade ground. You’ll get us all cashiered. It’s over, man.”

Both combatants paused for a moment, but it was Ataíde who looked around. Welby saw his advantage and pressed it without a moment’s hesitation. Paul saw the younger man stagger back and fall as Welby’s blade struck home. There was a spreading stain on the front of his white shirt.

Paul gave a bellow of rage, drew his own sword and leaped forward as if charging a French outpost. Welby was standing over his victim, his sword arm raised as if to strike another blow. He was given no chance. Paul’s blade clanged against his, striking it up. Welby spun around shocked, but he managed to fall into a defensive stance and parry Paul’s second pass. Paul leaped lightly over Ataíde’s body and moved forward, blade extended.

Welby backed up rapidly. It was becoming much lighter now and Paul could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the fear in his eyes. It was not the first time they had fought, though the previous bouts had been many years ago. Theoretically at least, they had been sporting bouts although even in boyhood, Paul had been a far better swordsman. The difference now was greater than ever and Welby knew it.

 He parried once and then twice but had neither the speed nor the skill to manage a third time. Paul’s sword twisted around his and Welby released the hilt with a cry of pain. He fell backwards to the ground, looking up into Paul’s face with an expression of sheer terror. Paul placed the point of his sword at Welby’s throat.

“Check Ataíde,” he said. It was the tone he used on a battlefield and at least one of the two seconds would recognise that it was not to be disobeyed. “Is he alive?”

There was a flurry of movement behind him. Paul remained still. He could hear Welby’s breath coming quick and heavy. He looked as though he was trying to press himself back into the earth to avoid that lethal point.

Nobody spoke for a long moment then Welby croaked:

“Van Daan. It was a fair fight…”

“If you make one more sound, Welby, I’m going to cut your windpipe.”

Welby did not make another sound. After what seemed forever to Paul, a calm voice behind him said:

“He’s alive, sir. Could do with a surgeon, mind, but Mr Swanson is stemming the bleeding. Best come and have a look at him yourself.”

“Presently, Jenson.” Paul lowered the point very gently until it pricked Welby’s throat. A tiny red spot appeared. Welby whimpered.

“I hope you’re praying, Welby, though right now you need to do it silently. In a minute I’m going to let you up. You’re going to get on your horse, ride back to town and arrange your passage home. No need to speak to Sir John Cradock, I’ll let him know and he can decide what to pass on to your commanding officer.

“Of course all of this depends on Lieutenant Ataíde staying alive. His future career has some value to me, which means that you might possibly get to salvage yours. I’ve no wish for him to lose his commission because you’re a spiteful bastard who doesn’t know how to behave. If you’re unlucky and he dies, I’m coming after you. Now get to your feet.”

He watched as Welby staggered up. His friend came forward nervously to help him on with his jacket and coat. Paul said nothing until Welby turned towards the horses. Then he raised his voice again.

“One more thing, Welby. As far as I’m aware, you frightened the life out of that poor woman. Thanks to Ataíde, it wasn’t worse. You owe him for that. But if I find out at any point that I’m wrong and that you did more to her than I think you did, I’m coming to find you and you won’t need a court martial because I am going to cut off your balls and feed them to you for breakfast. And you really need to believe that I will. Now fuck off and don’t let me see your face again.”

The sun was making an appearance now, with streaks of pink, orange and gold streaming across the sky. Paul went to where Carl was holding a wadded handkerchief to Ataíde’s chest. It was stained red but Paul thought that the bleeding seemed to be slowing. He hoped no internal damage had been done. Ataíde was conscious and breathing slowly as if he was trying to minimise the pain.

“Where’s the bloody surgeon?” Paul muttered.

“There isn’t one,” Carl said grimly. “Welby was supposed to arrange it, or rather his second was. Either they didn’t do it or the man didn’t show up. That poor lad is one of Ataíde’s friends in the militia. He’s terrified and speaks no English or French but Ataíde has just asked him to ride for help. I can’t see how we can get him out of here discreetly though.”

“I’d settle for alive,” Paul said. “Jenson, in case the boy runs like a rabbit, would you…”

“There’s a carriage coming, sir.”

Paul turned and watched as the vehicle made its way slowly up the track and stopped at the edge of the clearing. A groom went to let down the steps and opened the door and a woman in a dark cloak erupted from the carriage and raced across the grass. She dropped to her knees beside Ataíde and took his hand in hers, speaking to him soothingly in Portuguese.

Paul observed for a moment but realised that his caution was wholly unnecessary. There were no hysterics. After what sounded like a brief practical interrogation, the young woman got up and began calling instructions to her servants to carry the young officer to the carriage.

It was only then that Paul recognised her. “Senhorita Guida?”

She turned to him with astonishing calm and to his surprise addressed him in simple but understandable French.

“Major van Daan. Thank you for taking care of him for me. I am so angry that he did this. Fortunately I had paid his servant to inform me if he did anything so foolish. When he is well enough I shall give him my opinion of a man who fights a duel without a doctor present.”

Paul studied her and realised that he had been wrong on a number of counts. All of them delighted him.

“I wish I could be there to hear you,” he said wistfully. “Will you send a message when he is well enough to receive visitors? And please assure him that no word of this will spread through my agency. You might want to think about what kind of illness keeps him to his bed for a week or two.”

“I expect it is the winter fever. It is rife at Christmas time and he lives in a damp room with no heat. My mother insists that he is our guest until he recovers.”

She had thought it through and did not need his advice. Paul felt a growing appreciation for this girl. He bowed.

“An excellent idea. I’ll visit when he’s no longer infectious. My congratulations, ma’am. I’m so glad my friend turned out to be as intelligent as I thought he was. He’s made an excellent choice of wife. Does he know it yet?”

Amber eyes flashed with amusement. “Not precisely,” she said. “But I think he soon will. Good morning, Major. Thank you for everything.”

***

London, 1809

They dined in the quiet elegance of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s London club. The news of the successful outcome of the Cintra inquiry had spread rapidly and various gentlemen, both military and civilian, stopped to murmur their congratulations both on his exoneration and the news of his appointment to command the British forces in Portugal. Some of them also took the time to commiserate with him on the loss of Sir John Moore, who had died on the field at Corunna after a disastrous winter retreat had wreaked havoc on his army.

Wellesley had summoned Paul from his family home in Leicestershire, where he had been busy re-equipping the survivors of Moore’s campaign and recruiting men to replace the dead. There were too many dead.

They talked for a while of the coming year; of plans and logistics and the political situation in Europe. Despite the misery of the past months Paul was excited by the prospect of a new campaign. Listening to Wellesley describing some of his meetings at Horse Guards, he was reminded of something.

“What about the Portuguese troops, sir? You said that you’ve turned down the command of their army.”

“I have. I cannot possibly do everything, it would be ridiculous.”

“I agree although I’m astonished to hear you say so.”

Wellesley gave him a look. “I have recommended Beresford for the job. He’s been in Madeira but I believe he’s on his way to Lisbon now. He’ll do well on the diplomatic side, he’s a damned good soldier and I can work with him.”

“He’s an excellent choice, sir.” Paul paused, giving Wellesley a thoughtful look. “I presume he’ll have his own men in mind for his staff. All the same, I was wondering…”

Wellesley looked surprised and then gave what looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Major van Daan, are you about to ask a favour for a friend? That is very unlike you.”

“It is, isn’t it? Generally I can manage my own nepotism, I don’t need to ask for your help. On this occasion though, the gentleman is a Portuguese officer. He’s a lieutenant at present, about my age and he should have a captaincy at the very least. I’d say he would be a very good combat officer and he can’t wait to get back to his company, but there’s a lot more to him than that. He’s formidably intelligent, a good diplomat and speaks fluent French, some Spanish and has been learning English very successfully. He’s also courageous and resourceful. He was carted off by Bonaparte with the elite troops of the Portuguese Legion last year but managed to get away in the Pyrenees and got himself back to Lisbon.”

Wellesley’s interest had sharpened. “Why have I not met this man?”

“Because by the time he was back and fit enough for company, you’d been packed off to England.”

“What is his family background?”

Paul managed not to roll his eyes. Lineage would always matter to Wellesley although he was gradually learning to occasionally respect talent in men of more humble birth.

“Minor aristocracy. As is his wife. She’s even more formidable than he is; personally I’d employ both of them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Major. What possible use could a well-born female be in an army camp? What is his name?”

“Ataíde. Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde.”

Wellesley reached into his pocket for his note tablets and pencil and scrawled the name. “I have to write to Beresford tomorrow; I have a list of questions and instructions. I will tell him about this paragon and that your judgement is to be trusted in such matters as this. Now. Tell me about your recruitment. How many companies can you pull together for me?”

 

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