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?”

 

A Provincial Nobody

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Provincial Nobody pdf:    A Provincial Nobody

A Provincial Nobody

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just one?”

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

“Do I know this cousin?”

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

“Who is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think of her?”

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

“Miss Harcourt of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re going to hate it.”

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

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

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

“Good night, Miss Quayle.”

***

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

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

“Do you think he likes me, Maria?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodness, I have no idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

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

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

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

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

“Did you not like him?”

“I did not dislike him.”

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

“No of course not.”

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

“I didn’t want to be Lady Calverton.”

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

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

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

“It’s not your fault, Felicity.”

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

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

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

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

“But there’s another reason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I’ve been asking.”

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

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

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

“You are impertinent, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“I know where it came from.”

“Lord Calverton.”

“Or at least his friends.”

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

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

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

“Are you speaking from painful experience?”

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

“Why not?”

He hesitated. Eventually he said:

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

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

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

Thurlow said nothing for a moment. Then he said:

“Do you like to ride?”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right?”

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

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you quite well, my Lord?”

“I…you…you…”

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

“Are you feeling unwell, my Lord?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He insulted your fashion sense?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It sounds very dull.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m interested.”

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

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

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

“I’m hoping you’ll support it.”

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

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

“That’s a very good idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t wrong either, was I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Private?”

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

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

“What do you mean?” Benjamin said indignantly.

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

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

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

“Yes.” Benjamin said.

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

“I couldn’t find the right moment.”

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

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

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

“Of course I bloody love her.”

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

“You were.”

“And?”

“I lost my nerve,” Ben ground out.

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

“Seventeen.”

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

“Yes.”

“You counted?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“I thought if we do this tour first…”

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

“What if she says no?”

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

“What if I lose my nerve again?”

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

“That’s a bit of a walk.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure it was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Family Row 1812

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

 

Lisbon, March 1812

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

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

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

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

“That’s different. He’s a man.”

“Why is it different?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am simply pointing out…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s me, sir. Sorry.”

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

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

“How is she, Jamie, I’m missing her?”

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

“I know, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s gone too quickly.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right?”

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

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

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

“Take care, Paul. Not that you will.”

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

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

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

“I love you too, lad. Goodbye.”

A Family Reunion 1812

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

 

 

 

Lisbon,  February 1812

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

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

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

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

“He looks like his father, Señora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paul.”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Out sightseeing. And that was your wife.”

“Yes. Now that you’ve seen her…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When did you stop thinking that Father?”

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

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

“I was sorry about Rowena, Paul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t see that as an insult, sir.”

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

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

“Is he weaned?”

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

“Papa!”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Good Heavens.”

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

“Love, I didn’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m nine. My mother is dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And was she really pretty?”

“She was lovely.”

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

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

“What’s that?” Francis said eagerly.

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Your hair is so beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francis began to laugh. “Combs for tea!”

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

“It is not! I do not!”

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

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

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

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

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

The Van Daan Family

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

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

Well. Where do I start?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sight

The author marching over the battlefield at Sorauren.

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

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

The Sight

27th July 1813

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“You know Lord Wellington, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you for your help, Señora.”

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

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

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

“English?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if you’ll let me pay for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A witch?” he enquired with interest.

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

“A wise woman.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” he said. “I want to.”

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

“You go to school?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you also tell fortunes, Señora?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s still a tragic story, Señora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are not yet so close…”

“They bloody are. You need to move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir, move!” he bellowed.

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

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

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

“Douro! Douro!”

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

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

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

“Yes, my Lord.”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Did it help?”

“Yes. Do you know why?”

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

“Yes. They’re both friends of mine.”

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

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

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

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

“There, that feel all right?”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

12th August 1813

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you billeted here?”

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

“Did we beat Soult?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did they find me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Richard relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”

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

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

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

“What was what called?”

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

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

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

***

October 31st 1813

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

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

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

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

“Richard.”

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

“You’ve rented a house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d like to know.”

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

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

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

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

“Your Spanish soothsayer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Honoria, do you like dogs?”

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

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

“Is there a dog in it?”

“Yes. A puppy.”

His love did not hesitate.

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

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

“What is her name?”

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

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

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

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

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

The Sight    pdf of the story.

An Unquiet Dream

An Unquiet Dream is not, in fact, my new free short story for Halloween 2023. For those of you who have been waiting for that, it is coming I promise you. This year, it’s running slightly late.

When I wrote my Halloween story for this year, which is called The Sight, I chose to link it to the new book. An Unattainable Stronghold, for anybody who hasn’t realised, is out on November 1st. I intended to publish the story first but after reading it, my editor made a really good case as to why the story would work better if it was read after the book.

This left me with a dilemma, as I wanted to put out something for Halloween. My solution has been to delay The Sight until November 5th. Instead, I’m sharing An Unquiet Dream. Those of you who have read the Historical Writers Forum anthology Hauntings will already have read this. It’s been the only one of my short stories not to be freely available until now.

For those of you who haven’t read it, I hope you like it. It’s set during 1812 at an army hospital in Elvas and features one or two familiar characters. If you enjoy it, I really recommend you try Hauntings which has some excellent ghost stories from a variety of historical periods.

Watch out for the Sight on November 5th…

This story is also available as a pdf here.        An Unquiet Dream

An Unquiet Dream

Elvas, Portugal, 1812

The dreams were the worst.

They came relentlessly every night, so that after two months of waking trembling and bathed in sweat in the early hours of the morning, Sean O’Connor dreaded going to bed. He knew that he cried out in his sleep from the awkward enquiries of his room-mates, and Sean was embarrassed. He was immensely relieved when Dr Adam Norris, who was in charge of the general hospital, approached him as he was leaving the mess one afternoon and suggested a change of room.

“It’s very small, Captain, one of the attic rooms. I’ve had Colonel Stephens in it, but he left us on Thursday. There’s a convoy leaving for Lisbon, he’s going home.”

“Do I warrant a single room, Dr Norris? I thought you usually reserved those for more senior officers.”

“We don’t have any senior officers left, Captain O’Connor. And I thought you might prefer it.”

Sean felt himself flush. “I think my poor room-mates might prefer it. Have they been complaining?”

“They’re worried about you, Captain. As am I.”

“Thank you, Doctor. There’s no need, I’m doing very well.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine. The infection has gone and I’m getting stronger…”

“Captain O’Connor, you spent eighteen hours lying under a pile of dead bodies with your abdomen slashed open, it’s astonishing that you’re still alive.”

“Don’t,” Sean snarled, and Norris fell silent. After a long pause, he said:

“I’m sorry. I know you prefer not to talk about it, but…”

“I can’t talk about it,” Sean said. He could feel his muscles beginning to tense. There were beads of sweat on his brow and he longed to turn and run. It happened all the time. He could manage short, simple conversations about the weather or the quality of the food, but anything that touched on the long hours of his ordeal at Badajoz set off a collection of incomprehensible physical symptoms which terrified him.

“All right, Captain,” Norris said soothingly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get one of the orderlies to move your kit to the new room…”

“I don’t need help,” Sean snapped. “I may not be capable of doing my job any more but I’m quite capable of shifting a few bags up a couple of flights of stairs. Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your concern.”

Sean had made it to the door of his current room before he remembered there would be no solitude there. Captain Hendy and Lieutenant Brooke were still downstairs in the mess room, but Captain Smith would probably be in their shared room as he could not yet make it downstairs without assistance. Sean changed direction and went down the back stairs and outside. He was sorry that he had snapped at Dr Norris because he liked the man and he knew that Norris was genuinely concerned for him, but it did not help Sean to talk any more than it helped him to be silent.

Sean had been moved from the general hospital on the edge of Badajoz to the attractive little town of Elvas. There was no accommodation for officers within any of the three hospitals there. It was one of the ironies of Wellington’s army that the privilege of holding an officer’s commission turned into a significant disadvantage when an officer was sick or wounded. It was considered unsuitable for them to be treated alongside the common soldiers, so they were billeted in individual houses and left to fend for themselves. Those officers with private servants, or who had the means to pay for help, might do well enough. Others, who had nobody to tend them, were left to the mercy of whichever householder they had been billeted on and Sean had heard of men dying alone and untended.  

Sean was surprised and relieved on his arrival in Elvas, to be offered space in a tall house in a narrow street behind the cathedral. It was under the supervision of Dr Adam Norris who ran one of the hospitals and was also responsible for the care of a dozen sick or wounded officers billeted in the Casa Mendes. The house was plainly furnished but scrupulously clean and food and basic nursing care was provided by Señora Avila the stout housekeeper who spoke little English but ran an efficient household. The officers combined their pay and rations, and Captain Hendy’s servant ran errands and assisted with the heavier nursing tasks. The arrangement was very effective.

“Better than being in one of those hospitals, old boy,” Hendy said to Sean at their first meal together. “They’re hellish.”

“I’ve never heard of an arrangement like this for officers.”

“It’s not common, although Norris and Guthrie and a few of the other surgeons have been writing to the medical board to ask for better provision for the officers. This was set up by the regimental surgeon from the 110th but most of their wounded have been moved out, so Dr Norris has taken it over.”

“Thank God for the 110th,” Sean said with real feeling.

For ten days after his arrival, Sean was confined to bed, still burning with fever. There was a small isolation room on the first floor and having established that Sean could pay, Norris found a skinny twelve year old to take care of him, ensuring that he was fed when he could eat and kept reasonably clean. Eventually he examined the appalling wound across Sean’s midriff and gave an approving nod.

“It’s doing well, Captain, and the fever has gone. I thought we might lose you, but it appears you’ll live to fight another day.”

Sean tried not to shudder at the thought. He could not explain to Norris or anybody else how that day haunted his dreams. Badajoz had not been his first battle and not even the first time he had been wounded but the long hours that he had lain trapped under dead and dying men in the breach had left him with wounds that could not be seen and could not be treated. Around him, his fellow officers moved on. Some were sent back to England to recuperate while others went back to join their regiments with real enthusiasm.

Sean could do neither. Physically he was becoming stronger every day and Norris continued to give positive reports on the healing of his horrific wound. Mentally, he was a broken man. He started at every sound, cried out in his sleep and awoke sweating and terrified after dreams of blood and death. He was morbidly anxious about his health, and that of his fellow officers, checking on them compulsively and asking Norris worried questions about anything that seemed unusual. Sean knew that his fellows regarded him with a mixture of compassion and embarrassment and had begun to avoid his company.

Outside in the narrow street, Sean walked quickly down to the cathedral. The doors were open, and he slipped inside and made his way to a pew. There were several other people around, all of them locals who were either praying or sitting in quiet contemplation. One or two shot Sean a curious glance but did not speak to him. The priest was at the lectern, flicking through a huge bound bible and he looked over and gave a faint smile. Sean nodded in response then sat back and closed his eyes. Father Nani had become accustomed to his daily visits during these past weeks. He spoke a little English, and had even discreetly heard Sean’s confession when the cathedral was empty and there was no danger of an unexpected visit from a red-coated tourist. The religious preferences of Irish officers were never discussed in the mess. Sean kept silent on the matter and practised his childhood Catholicism in secret when he could.

He found the church both a comfort and a refuge in his current misery although so far his impassioned prayers had brought no answer. Sean knew that his continued, steady recovery was putting Dr Norris in a difficult position. Within a few weeks, he was going to have to declare Sean fit for duty again and that would place the onus of making a decision squarely upon Sean’s shoulders. Sean knew that Norris was trying to avoid that for as long as possible. If Sean was physically fit, he needed either to return to his regiment, resign his commission and go home, or at the very least, request a spell on half-pay.

Sean could not decide. Theoretically, an officer could sell out at any time, but few did during wartime unless they were too sick or too badly wounded to carry on. Sean’s wound had healed well, and he suspected that at least some of his fellow officers would think that fear, rather than necessity, had made him leave the army and despise him for it. He rather despised himself.

There was no comfort today in religion. Arriving back at the Casa Mendes Sean was both relieved and irritated to find that Norris had ignored his wishes and that Private Coulson was already arranging his possessions in his new room. He saluted as Sean arrived and Sean found a coin and handed it to him.

“I can unpack for you if you like, sir.”

“No need. I’m not that helpless, Private. Go on, off you go.”

The room was small and clean with a narrow bed, a wooden table and chair and a small wash stand with a ceramic bowl and jug. Sean had few possessions, and it did not take him long to arrange them, using one of his boxes as a table beside his bed and the other as storage for his clothes. He set out writing materials on the table alongside a bottle of brandy and a pewter cup. It had been two weeks since his last letter to his wife and he knew she would be frantic for news, but somehow he could not bring himself to write until he had a decision to give her. Janey would want him to come home. Were it not for the children, she would have been on a transport to nurse him herself. Sean ached to see her but was glad she was not here. At some point she would have to know how badly his ordeal had affected him, but he was happy to delay it until he had made his choice. He sat staring at the blank page and had written nothing when the call came for dinner.

Meals, for those who were able to attend, were served in what must have been a parlour and which the officers had turned into an informal mess room. After dinner a few officers generally lingered on in the room playing cards, sharing wine and swapping battle stories. Sean rarely joined them. He desperately missed the camaraderie and banter of late nights playing whist for pennies and making bad jokes, but he could not risk making a fool of himself by flinching at a slammed door or getting a bout of the shakes at the mention of Badajoz. His mess mates were kind, but Sean did not expect them to understand.

Sean spoke little during dinner. He managed a conversation about the departure of Colonel Stephens and his new quarters and listened to a squabble between two subalterns about the best fishing spots on the Guadiana River. When the table was cleared and the cards were produced, Sean made his excuses and went up to his room. The others no longer tried to persuade him to linger.

Sean had recently received a parcel of books from Jane, and he sat on his bed under the sloping attic window and read until the light faded. He could hear the others going to bed, the opening and closing of doors and a muffled curse as Captain Gregg missed a step and stumbled, with his newly fitted wooden leg. Eventually it was quiet, and Sean got into bed and lay there, both longing for and dreading sleep.

It came eventually but when he awoke it was still dark. For a moment he was disoriented, expecting to see the shape of his room-mates on their narrow bunks and the litter of their possessions scattered around the room. Instead there were the few items of furniture and the closed ill-fitting door. Sean lay still for a few minutes with a sense of bewilderment, although he did not immediately know why. Finally it dawned on him that he was awake but perfectly calm. There was none of the usual panic and he could not recall dreaming.

The realisation almost sent him into panic and Sean unexpectedly wanted to laugh at how stupid that was. His usually lively sense of humour had been one of the first casualties of Badajoz and it was very good to see that it had not gone forever. Sean sat up, listening, and realised that he had been woken, not by his usual terrifying dreams, but by a sound.

Sean sat listening for a while. It sounded like footsteps, pacing backwards and forwards across a room. Occasionally it would stop, as though the person had paused in their restless movement, but then it would start up again.

Sean could not work out where the sounds were coming from. They could not be above him as his room was at the top of the house. There were other rooms on this floor, but as far as he knew they were not occupied by patients. Dr Norris definitely had the room next to his, and Sean had an idea that the other rooms belonged to the medical orderly and two or three officers’ servants’ as well as the Portuguese maid who was employed to clean the house and to help in the kitchen. Norris had not returned from the hospital by the time the other officers went to bed. Sean supposed it could be him, but somehow he could not reconcile this restless pacing with the doctor’s calm demeanour. When he had told Norris about his sleep problems, the doctor had replied that his long hours of work left him so exhausted that he slept the moment he got into bed.

Sean got up and padded to the door, listening. After a moment, he opened it cautiously and stepped out onto the landing. Out here, the sounds were quieter. Sean tiptoed to the door to the next room and listened again. He could still hear them but not as distinctly. For a moment, he hesitated, then shrugged and went back into his room, closing the door. He was curious but he could hardly knock on the doctor’s door in the early hours. Given the noise he frequently made in his own room during the night, he did not have the right to complain about anybody else. Sean got back into bed, closed his eyes, and resigned himself to a sleepless night, hearing the steady tramp of the footsteps.

It was light when he awoke, dawn coming early on these summer days, and he lay there for a while feeling very relaxed. The bed, although narrower than the wide bunk in his previous room, was very comfortable. It was covered by an old patchwork quilt which must have been part of the original furnishings of the house. It reminded Sean of home, where his mother and sisters had worked at quilting through the long winter evenings. This one was faded but very soft and Sean ran his fingers over it and wondered about the women who had made it and whether they had lived in this house.

Eventually there were signs of life below, and Sean got up. He had no servant with him so he had got into the habit of bringing up water each evening so that he could wash in the mornings. It was cold, but that hardly mattered at this time of year. Sean washed, shaved, and dressed. He was sitting down to pull on his boots before he realised what had brought on this unaccustomed sense of well-being.

He had not dreamed.

The realisation shocked him, and he remained seated on the wooden chair, gazing up at a blue sky through the high window without really seeing it. Sean could not remember the last night he had slept without the awful nightmares. Nothing had happened to bring about the startling change and Sean was almost afraid to hope that this was more than a temporary respite. All the same, it had cheered him up considerably and he arrived at the breakfast table and collected his portion of bread and spiced sausage in an excellent mood. The arrival of a supply convoy meant that there was sugar for his tea and Sean ate with a good appetite, listening to the usual conversations.

Letters had arrived from Wellington’s army, marching towards Salamanca and Madrid to engage the French, and there was a lively discussion about his Lordship’s probable plans which Sean found himself able to endure surprisingly well. There was also news of a convoy travelling to Lisbon within a fortnight to convey some of the sick and wounded either to convalescent hospitals in the capital or back to England. A hunting party had brought down several deer which promised a feast of venison that evening and Captain Hendy, who was almost fully recovered and expected to be able to re-join his regiment in a week or so, offered to supply the wine for a celebration.

As the other officers left, Dr Norris appeared in search of a belated breakfast. Sean sat down again and poured more tea into two cups. Norris thanked him and began to eat.

“You seem better this morning, Captain O’Connor.”

“I had a better night,” Sean admitted. “At least, I didn’t dream. I did wake up though. It was very odd, I thought I could hear somebody walking about in the early hours, but when I checked the corridor there was nobody there. Did you hear anything, Doctor?”

“I wasn’t there,” Norris said, around a mouthful of bread. “I was called out at about eleven and ended up having to perform an emergency operation on a German cavalry officer. I’ve only just come back. Once I’m at the hospital, there are always patients to see and I’m never back before morning. I was going to eat and go up to see if I can get a couple of hours sleep. God, I’d forgotten what tea with sugar in tasted like. Is there any more in the pot?”

“I’ll get some,” Sean said, getting up. He took the pot through into the kitchen, ignored Jenkins’ rolled eyes at the request and went back to the table to find Norris regarding him with some amusement.

“You really are a lot better, Captain. Who knew that a night without dreaming could bring about this effect?”

“It probably seems stupid,” Sean said. “It’s just that I think I’d convinced myself it was never going to happen. That I’d be like this forever.”

“The reassuring thing for me is that you’re talking about it,” Norris said. “You’ve been trying to hide from it.”

“We don’t discuss fear in the officer’s mess, Doctor.”

“No, because you’re all too frightened to,” Norris said without irony. “But that doesn’t mean men don’t talk about it at all, among friends. And it affects most soldiers at some point or another, even those who haven’t been through such a horrific ordeal as you. I’ve a friend, a fairly senior officer these days, who freely admits that in the early days he used to throw up after every battle and that his hands shook for half a year after Assaye. You’re not unique.”

“I bet he doesn’t talk about that in front of his junior officers, though.”

“I’ve no idea, although knowing him, I wouldn’t place a bet on it. But congratulations for taking the first step. Don’t panic when it comes back – because it will – and don’t run and hide again. Now that we’ve spoken, believe that I can be trusted. I’m not going to share your confidences with the rest of the army.”

“I know you won’t. Doctor – thank you. You’ve been the soul of patience and I know you’ve delayed signing off my sick leave for longer than you should.”

“I have, and I’m going to extend it for longer. You shouldn’t rush into a decision either way, just yet. In fact, I’ve a proposal for you. We’ve no commandant in charge since poor Major Clarke died of typhus. Eventually they’ll assign somebody, but how do you feel about helping me out with the running of the place until they do? I’ll write to Dr McGrigor, and he can speak to Lord Wellington and your commanding officer about it.”

Sean was taken aback. “I know nothing about medicine, Doctor.”

“That’s why I’m here. The medical staff are my responsibility, but there should be a regimental officer as commandant, in charge of the orderlies and ward-masters and to take care of general discipline. It won’t be a formal appointment, but it would be a big help, and it might give you more time to decide.”

“All right,” Sean said. “Doctor, I’m not sure I’ve ever said this, but I’d like…it was always my aim to get back into combat again.”

Norris smiled and poured tea from the replenished pot. “I know, Captain. If it hadn’t been, you’d have allowed me to send you home on those first transports. Let’s give it some time, shall we? Now what was this about footsteps in the night?”

“I thought it was you, at first,” Sean admitted. “They sounded so close, like a man pacing up and down the room.”

“Not me. By the time I get to my bed, I’ve no energy to pace the floor. I wonder if it could have been in the room below? Sounds can carry in an odd way in these old houses.”

“Who has the room under mine?”

“Ashby and Newton. It won’t be Newton, though, I’ve had to move him out, he’s down at the fever ward.”

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that.”

“I must say I’ve never heard Ashby moving about in the night, but that doesn’t mean much, I sleep like the dead and besides, my room isn’t above his.”

“I wish I knew,” Sean said. “If it is him, then there’s a reason behind it. I don’t know Ashby well. I don’t know any of them that well, but perhaps something’s troubling him.”

“He never seems that troubled to me,” Norris said frankly. “But in any case, he’s got a clean bill of health and he’s off back to his regiment.”

“I’ll be the only one left soon,” Sean said.

“Not for long, Captain. There’ll be another battle and another wave of wounded men coming in by wagon and it will all start up again. That’s why I need your help.”

Sean was doubtful about his new role as temporary hospital commandant, but he quickly found that his new responsibilities kept him very busy and kept his mind occupied. Over the following week he met with the commandants of the other two hospitals in Elvas and began to familiarise himself with his new duties. There was a lot to learn but Norris was a patient and informative teacher.

There were no more dreams. Most nights, Sean slept through, tired out after a long and busy day. Twice he awoke in the night to the sound of pacing footsteps, and lay listening to them in growing bewilderment. He broached the matter with Lieutenant Ashby just before his departure and Ashby stared at him so blankly that it was clear that he knew nothing about the matter. It was a mystery, but Sean had no time to dwell on it.

The dream came after ten days and was so unexpected that it shook Sean, who had begun to think that his troubles were over. He awoke after hours of peaceful sleep into a room bathed in silvery moonlight. He had left the window slightly open against the stuffy heat of the summer night and a breeze had sprung up, wafting cool air into the room. At the foot of his bed, a woman stood immobile.

The moon made it possible to see her clearly. She was dressed in a shapeless white garment, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. Sean thought that she looked very young but also very unwell. She was thin and gaunt, her arms almost skeletal and the bones of what should have been a very lovely face standing out in sharp relief. Her eyes were pools of darkness.

The shock make Sean yell. He closed his eyes tightly and pulled the quilt up over his head. There was no sound in the room. Sean lay curled up for some time, sweating in fear, with his heart pounding. Eventually, reluctantly, he forced himself to move. Peering over the top of the quilt, he saw the room, neat and unremarkable as it had been when he went to bed. The girl was not there, and Sean decided that she never had been.

Sean got up and went for the brandy. Pouring a generous measure, he went back to bed and sat sipping it, waiting for his heart to slow down. He realised it must have been another dream and that his first waking had been part of the illusion. It was disheartening, but Sean sternly forbade himself to overreact. He had gone for almost two weeks without dreaming and this dream, although terrifying, was nothing like the repetitive nightmares of Badajoz. At the very least, that cycle had been broken.

Sean mentioned it to Norris when they were going over some supply requisitions the following day. His instinct had been to keep quiet about his relapse, but he remembered what Norris had said and decided that talking about it might be a good idea. Norris heard him out without interruption.

“Well done for talking to me,” he said, when Sean had finished. “And it’s certainly different from your previous nightmares. I wonder why this woman? You didn’t recognise her, did you?”

“No. She looked ill…half-dead to be honest. I did wonder…”

“Go on.”

Sean took a deep breath. “I could hear them screaming,” he said abruptly. “When I was lying there all those hours, thinking I was about to die. I could hear the people screaming when the soldiers sacked the town. Especially the women. I heard afterwards what they did to them. How many of them were raped. And I felt guilty that I was lying there listening to it happening and I couldn’t get up to help.”

“Dear God, I didn’t realise that,” Norris said softly. “No wonder you have nightmares, Captain. Look, try not to worry about it too much. You’ve come so far in the past few weeks. Do you want me to give you a sleeping draught?”

“No. I tried that at the beginning, and it made me feel terrible. I’ll be all right.”

“Well let me know how it goes over the next few days,” Norris said. “Are you still hearing the footsteps?”

Sean laughed. “Yes. Although not last night, oddly enough. They don’t bother me, I think it’s just the house falling down around us. They don’t even keep me awake for long, although I always wake up. I do wonder what it is, though.”

“Rats scampering around and chewing on the plasterwork, probably. We’ll know when a section of the roof caves in,” Norris said philosophically. “I’m glad that you’re taking a more light-hearted attitude Captain, it’ll do you good.”

Sean agreed with him. While he was unable to deny his disappointment at the return of his nightmares, he was pleased that his mood remained optimistic. He was enjoying having a job to do and he realised it was improving his confidence. As many of the convalescents left and others arrived, he had no need to explain his continuing presence at the hospital. Norris merely introduced him as the temporary hospital commandant and his new mess mates did not hesitate to come to him with questions and complaints. While it was not the same as being in command of a company of the line, it made Sean feel useful and for the most part it kept the nightmares at bay.

He saw the woman again a few nights later. This time, the dream caught him just on the edge of wakefulness and he made himself lie still, his heart pounding with the shock, staring at the slender form. Without the panic he had felt at his first sight of her, he was able to observe details that he had not noticed before. She was definitely wearing some kind of nightgown, stained in places and with a ragged hem. Her hair looked dishevelled and the sunken misery of the dark eyes unexpectedly wrung Sean’s heart. His eyes hurt as he forced himself to stare at her, trying hard not to blink. He could not help himself, and in that flicker of an eyelid, she was gone.

Sean sat up. The dream puzzled him because he had no sense of when he had slipped between sleep and wakefulness. The first time he had seen her, it might have happened at any point when he was huddling under the bedclothes, but tonight he would have sworn that he had been awake the whole time. It was clear that he could not have been. If he had, then his illness had taken an unexpectedly sinister turn. Sean settled down, then lay awake for several hours worrying about brain injury.

He took his concerns to Norris the following day. Norris had asked Sean to join him on an expedition to inspect a building which might be suitable for a new fever hospital. Fever patients were currently lodged in one of the convent buildings, but it was not large enough. Sickness was rife in Wellington’s army and far more men died of fever or dysentery than in battle. Norris had been searching for a new location for his fever patients for some time and walking through the dusty sheds of an abandoned winery, Sean thought he might have found it.

They were at the site for several hours, making lists and notes and talking to the owner, an elderly farmer who had lost his son to war and clearly had very little interest in what became of the unused farm buildings. Repairs would be needed and a thorough cleaning before bunks could be installed, but Sean thought that there were probably enough walking wounded to do much of the work. His new position had quickly introduced him to the idlers and malingerers who haunted every army hospital and he suspected that giving them an honest day’s work would convince many of them that it was time to return to their regiments.

It was evening before they rode back towards the hospital, and Norris suggested that they stop at one of the taverns in the square for a meal and a drink. It was the first time since Badajoz that Sean had done anything like this, and he enjoyed it enormously. They sat outside on wooden benches after they had eaten, sharing a jug of wine and swapping stories.

“How are your nightmares?” Norris asked finally, as they poured the last of the wine.

“I’m not sure. Yesterday, I started to wonder if it’s a dream at all or if I’m going a bit mad. I saw that girl again, but it felt as though I was wide awake. Is it possible that I’m seeing things?”

“Hallucinations?”

“Are they real? I’ve heard of them, but I’ve no idea.”

“Oh yes. It’s not unusual with a brain injury, I’ve known men who have seen the oddest things. I suppose it’s possible, but if you hurt your head in that mess I’d have expected to see signs of it weeks ago. If you want my honest opinion, I think it’s another of your dreams and you just didn’t realise it. But this one doesn’t seem to be upsetting you as much, and you’re definitely less jumpy now.”

“That’s the wine,” Sean said, lifting his cup. Norris laughed and raised his in a toast.

Sean felt pleasantly mellow as they went back to the house and up the stairs to their rooms.

“If they need me in the middle of the night you’ll have to shake me awake, Captain, or I’ll never hear them,” Norris said. “I’d invite you in for a last brandy, but I’ve run out.”

“I’ve got some,” Sean said. “Come in. It’ll help you sleep.”

They laughed together as Sean poured the drink, slightly tipsy and shushing each other loudly. Sean sat on the bed, giving Norris the chair. It was a bright clear night, a sliver of moon and a canvas of brilliant stars shining through the window. Sean lit two candles and sat back, sipping the brandy and enjoying the companionable silence. He realised he was becoming sleepy and closed his eyes. Norris had fallen silent as well and Sean wondered suddenly if he had dozed off on the hard wooden chair and opened his eyes to look.

She was there, as on the previous occasion, wholly immobile, with the dark eyes staring sightlessly towards him. She was so close to where Norris sat that he could have reached out and touched her. The shock of it drew a squawk of alarm from Sean. He scuttled backwards on the bed into the corner by the wall, spilling the dregs of his brandy onto the quilt, and closed his eyes tight.

“Captain! Captain! Are you all right?”

“No,” Sean said, shaking his head violently. “No. Oh no, no, no, no, no. I can’t stand it. I’m going bloody mad. Bad enough with the dreams, but now I’m seeing things when I’m wide awake and I can’t take it.”

A hand grasped his arm. “Up,” Norris said in peremptory tones. “Come on, into my room. Don’t argue with me, move.”

He bundled Sean into the next room and pushed him into a folding camp chair. Sean realised Norris had brought the brandy with him and watched, silent and trembling, as the doctor poured two cups. He carefully put one into Sean’s shaking hand and made sure that he drank some before sitting in an identical chair opposite him and drinking a large gulp from his own cup.

“Better?”

Sean nodded and drank more. “I’m sorry. Look, I know you’ve tried, but I need to resign my commission. I’m never going to…”

“Sean, will you shut up for five minutes and let me speak. Don’t say anything at all.”

Sean was surprised into obedience. He suddenly realised that there were beads of sweat of Norris’s forehead and his hand holding the cup was not entirely steady either.

“You’re not going mad and you’re not seeing things,” Norris said quietly. “Or at least if you are, it’s contagious. I saw her too.”

Sean stared at him. It was at least a minute before he really understood the words and when he did, he could not say anything, frozen with shock and sudden terror. His voice when he finally spoke was a croak.

“You saw her. You mean…”

“No, don’t say anything,” Norris said quickly. He was on his feet, rummaging around on his desk. His room was considerably larger than Sean’s with a wide old fashioned bed and a collection of battered furniture. Norris came back to him with paper and a pencil. He handed Sean a large book to lean on.

“Write, he said briefly. “It doesn’t have to be neat. That’s why I wanted you to keep quiet. I want to compare what we saw. You’ve seen her several times, so yours should be a lot more detailed than mine. Get on with it.”

Sean put down his glass on the floor and took the pencil while Norris went to the desk. Having something to do helped to calm his fear and he found that after a moment he was able to write fluently. As he wrote, Sean reflected that it was an advantage to have a scientific mind. It would not have occurred to him to compare notes in this way.

Eventually, Sean ran out of things to write. He read what he had written and put down his pencil. He got up and handed Norris the paper and Norris scanned it, his lips quirking into a smile.

“Yours is a lot neater than mine. I suppose you’ve had time to get used to her.”

Sean looked over his shoulder. “Or it could be because you’re a doctor. I’ve never yet met one who could write legibly.”

Adam gave him a look. “Perhaps I should hand over more of my paperwork to you, Captain O’Connor, as you’re so proud of your penmanship. As I thought, yours is a lot more detailed. I didn’t notice the embroidery on the shift although I did see the stain, mainly because I thought it might be blood. I didn’t see as much of her face as you did, and I didn’t notice that her feet were bare. But I wrote a lot about her physical condition because she looked as though she was half starved.”

“That may also be because you’re a doctor. It makes sense that we noticed different things.”

“But generally, the accounts tally remarkably well. I’d say we saw the same thing.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sean said. “I thought I was going mad. But Doctor…”

“My name is Adam. I think we’ve gone beyond formality.”

Sean smiled faintly. He was beginning to feel a lot better. There was something very reassuring in Norris’s practical approach to the vision. “Adam, how did she appear? Every time I’ve seen her, I’ve had my eyes closed and I’ve just opened them and she’s there.”

“It’s difficult to say. I was looking at you, laughing to myself, thinking you were going to fall asleep in front of me. And then I saw something to my left, like a flutter of movement, so I turned my head, and she was right there. I nearly died of fright.”

Sean could not help laughing at his frank admission. “It probably sounds rude to say that I’m glad, but I bloody am. Look, Adam…have you ever come across anything like this before? I mean what is it? What is she? Is she…have we seen…?”

“A ghost? How the hell would I know? No, I’ve never seen anything like it before, although I’ve met men who say they have. To be honest I’ve generally put it down to too much drink and a dark night on sentry duty.”

“We’ve been drinking.”

“That’s why I wanted to write it down,” Norris said. “I think it’s entirely possible for two men in drink to egg each other on to the point that they’re convinced they’ve seen a ghost. But I don’t think they’d be capable of the kind of detail we just produced independently. Admittedly you did tell me previously that you’d seen a woman, but you gave me no details at all.”

Sean regarded him for a moment. He felt very sober, with the beginnings of a headache. “So who the hell is she? Or was she?”

“I’ve no idea. Look, why don’t you sleep in here tonight, Sean, I’ve…”

“No, it’s all right. I’m not afraid of her, Adam, it’s just a shock when I see her. But she never appears more than once a night. I wonder if it’s always the same time, I’ve never looked.”

“Well it was around midnight when she turned up this evening because I’d just taken out my watch. I was going to wake you up to say goodnight.”

“I’ll add that to the notes,” Sean said, and his companion grinned.

“We’ll make a scientist of you yet. Get some sleep, Sean. I need to do my early rounds tomorrow, but we’ll meet up during the afternoon and talk about it. If you want to.”

“I do. There must be some explanation for this.”

***

Adam Norris slept late the following morning and dragged himself through his rounds with an effort. He was usually a moderate drinker, and it was not until midday that his headache subsided, and he began to feel better. The evening was one of the strangest he had ever experienced, but Adam found himself thinking about the early part as much as its dramatic conclusion. He had enjoyed spending time with Sean O’Connor, and it reminded him how much he missed his friends who were up at the lines. It had been a promotion to be placed in charge of a general hospital, but there were some disadvantages of being away from the main army and isolation was one of them.

Sean’s ghost was entirely another matter. Adam considered himself a rational man and had made it a principle during his medical career to weigh the evidence as far as he could before making a decision about diagnosis or treatment. In the heat of battle, there was no time to do anything other than react to every emergency and Adam knew that he sometimes made mistakes, but it was part of the job to accept that many patients could not be saved and live with it. Generally, however, he took his job seriously, studied whenever he could to keep up to date and was willing to accept new ideas.

Adam had never expected his open-mindedness to be tested by the appearance of a ghost, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not come up with any rational explanation for the figure he had seen the previous evening. There was no possible way the girl could have entered the room without him seeing her do so, or indeed hearing her, as Sean’s door creaked horrendously. She had looked, for those few moments, as real and solid as Sean, but then she had vanished as Adam blinked and left no trace behind.

The apparition had alarmed Adam at the time, but there had been no sense of menace about the woman. She seemed sad and possibly desperate, but not threatening. Making his way through the hot, stinking wards of the hospital, Adam found himself wondering about her. Having never believed in ghosts, he knew nothing about them apart from stories around the fireside during his boyhood, but all the tales of hauntings he had ever come across involved a person once living.

He mentioned this to Sean when he joined him in the commandant’s office that afternoon before dinner. Sean looked surprisingly well and grinned when Adam said so.

“Ten years of army life will give you an awfully hard head for the drink, Adam. Sit down. I’ve a very nice madeira or I can send Private Edwards for some tea if you’d prefer.”

Adam laughed. “Let’s try the madeira, although if this goes on I’ll be dead of the drink before the end of this war. I’ve been thinking about your ghost all day.”

“My ghost, is it now? I did wonder about that, you know, because I’m assuming that Colonel Stephens never mentioned seeing anything. So is it the room she’s haunting, or is it me?”

“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. “To be fair, Stephens was in a lot of pain. He’d lost his right arm and I had him dosed on as much laudanum as I could. Which he later supplemented with wine. He’d have slept through an army of ghosts marching through that room, and this one was fairly silent.”

“Was she though? I admit she’s never made a sound when I’ve seen her, but I’ve heard those footsteps pacing many times.”

Adam was startled. “Good God, I’d forgotten about that. So you never found out who it was?”

“No. I’ve asked around, but they all looked at me as if I was mad. As you know, I put it down to rodents of some kind but I’m not so sure now. It didn’t sound much like rats or mice, it’s too regular and too loud. And honestly, it didn’t sound as if it came from below me. I’d have said either next door or above, but there’s nothing up there that I’m aware of.”

“Or in the same room,” Adam said quietly.

“Now isn’t that a delightful thought.”

“Well it’s one you don’t need to dwell upon. I’ve had them clearing out Major Clarke’s room for you, I wanted it well scrubbed because of his illness, but it’s ready now. It’s on the floor below mine and it’s a lot more comfortable than the room you’re in. You could move your kit before we go into dinner. I’ll help you if you like.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Sean said. “It’s not that it’s frightening exactly, but it’s a little unnerving now that I know she’s not just in my head, not knowing when she’ll make an appearance. And we can treat it as a piece of research. At least that way, we’ll find out if it’s me or the room.”

Adam laughed aloud. “Whatever the cause of this, Captain O’Connor, it’s been the making of you. You’re a changed man, between ghosts and your new responsibilities.”

“And a man I can call a friend,” Sean said, echoing closely what Adam had been thinking earlier.

“That as well.”

“About those dreams, though. I actually think she did help me out with that infernal pacing. It woke me up so many nights, that I think it interrupted the dreaming. By the time I went back to sleep, I was thinking of something else and once I stopped worrying about the dreams, they stopped coming so much. Although I still jump like a nervous colt if a door slams close by.”

“One thing at a time, Sean, you’re doing very well. Have you written to your poor wife yet?”

“I have, so. I told her I’m staying out here for the present, in a temporary posting and that I’ll make my decision when they find a replacement for me.”

“Good for you.” Adam paused. He had a question, but he was not entirely sure how to phrase it. “Look, Sean, we can leave it here if you like. If you move into another room and the whole thing stops. I’ll close that room down, use it for storage.”

He could see the Irishman considering it. “We could do that,” he said. “But I rather like the notion of a hospital for officers, I think we should have more of it not less. And besides, now that I’ve seen her, I want to know.”

“Know what?”

“Who she was. What happened to her. Why in God’s name she’s wandering the rooms of this house.”

“And how are you going to find that out?” Adam asked with genuine curiosity. Sean grinned and raised his glass.

“Research, laddie. I learned the value of it quite recently from a scientific mind that I very much respect. Your good health.”

***

Sean slept well and dreamlessly in his new room. He was kept busy for a few days because of a selection of disciplinary matters among the convalescing soldiers. It was well known that idle soldiers were the most troublesome to manage and Sean was finding that discipline was the biggest challenge of his new post. He had been trying to steer a course between firmness and compassion, but a report from the Portuguese authorities in Elvas about a raid on a local farmhouse pushed him beyond his limit. The owners of the house had been robbed and beaten, but what infuriated Sean was the tearful aspect and bruised face of the farmer’s daughter. No complaint of sexual assault was made, and Sean was not surprised, since the farmer would not wish to broadcast his daughter’s shame, but he was determined to make an example. Too many of the more active convalescents assumed that their status on the sick roll made them immune from punishment and Sean summoned a court martial, determined to prove them wrong. He could not flog them for rape, but their other crimes were well documented and although the punishment was relatively light, Sean could sense their shock that he had administered it at all, and in front of every man fit to witness it in the entire hospital.

When it was over, Sean informed Dr Norris that the men involved had effectively proved their fitness for duty and would be sent back to the lines with the next convoy, along with a letter to their commanding officer about their crimes. Adam made no attempt to argue, and with the matter concluded, Sean had time to turn his attention to the matter of spectres. He knew nothing about how the Casa Mendes came to be part of the general hospital and took his initial queries to Adam, who shook his head regretfully.

“I wish I could tell you, but I had nothing to do with it. We were struggling with the wounded after Badajoz and the officers were billeted all over the place and then Mrs van Daan informed me that she had found this place and that we could have the use of it. Señora Avila and her staff came with the house, but I know nothing of the owners.”

“Mrs van Daan?” Sean said blankly.

“The wife of Colonel van Daan of the 110th. He commands the third brigade of the Light Division. She helps out with the wounded, and…”

“I’ve heard of Mrs van Daan,” Sean said, and then saw the expression on Adam’s face and hastily revised a large amount of gossip he had been about to repeat. “I mean…isn’t she the lady who has worked with the surgeons and who does rather more than nursing?”

Adam Norris studied him for a long moment then gave a faint smile. “Anne van Daan and her husband are two of my closest friends, Sean. She came to work with me as a volunteer in Lisbon three years ago and I trained her, against enormous opposition from my fellow surgeons. She’s extraordinary. She’s also a very good organiser and she found this place. I’ll write to her to see what she knows. In the meantime, I’ve had another idea. We need an excellent source of local gossip and I know just the place to find it.”

“Where?”

Norris grinned. “At the local brothel, of course.”

Sean stared at him. He realised his mouth was hanging open like a callow boy who had never heard of a brothel and closed it quickly. “I wonder why I didn’t think of that.”

Norris laughed aloud. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. There’s a young woman by the name of Pereira who runs a very pleasant tavern on the edge of town. I have been there, but not as a customer. One of the girls was very unwell during the time we were here, and Senorita Pereira had no faith in the local apothecary so I was asked as a personal favour if I would attend.”

“A personal favour for whom?” Sean asked.

“A young officer who is a particular friend of the lovely lady. I’m not giving you his name, it wouldn’t be right. We can walk over tomorrow if you wish. It’s not far, just near the Santa Luzia Fort.”

“Convenient for the garrison, then. If my wife knew I was planning a visit to a brothel, she’d never speak to me again. I’m assuming you aren’t intending to tell yours either?”

“Oh, I’m not married. I can’t imagine how your wife would find out, but I promise to bear witness to your good behaviour if ever I’m asked. You’ll like Diana Pereira, she’s not at all what you’d expect.”

It was less than two miles to the tavern, and they walked through quiet streets as the people of Elvas generally took a siesta during hot summer afternoons. Sean wondered if they would be admitted but the tavern door was wide open. They went in and found the tap room almost empty apart from two elderly men seated on a bench with a jug of wine and a chess board between them. A stocky dark-haired man was seated on a high wooden stool behind the bar with what looked like an account book in front of him, but he stood up as they entered and gave a little bow.

“It’s Emilio, isn’t it?” Adam asked pleasantly. “Dr Norris. I was here last year, to tend Lotta; I’m not sure if you remember me?”

The man nodded but did not speak. Adam ordered wine. As he was paying, a door at the back opened and a woman came into the room. She was dressed in yellow muslin, and she wore her hair pulled back at the sides with decorated combs but otherwise loose down her back. Sean thought she was probably in her twenties and was very attractive and very self-assured.

“Welcome, gentlemen. A pleasant change to see a red coat, we don’t see so many of them these days. Have you just arrived…?”

She stopped, her eyes on Adam’s face, and then she smiled again and there was warmth in it. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t recognise you immediately. You’re even more welcome as an old friend. Please, put your purse away. You wouldn’t take a penny for your services to Lotta, the least you can do is allow me to buy you a drink.”

Adam took her outstretched hand and raised it to his lips. “Miss Pereira. May I introduce the acting Commandant of my hospital and my good friend, Captain Sean O’Connor.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Mine too, Captain. Are you just here for a drink, Doctor, because I’ll willingly leave you in peace?”

“I was hoping to speak to you, ma’am. We’re in search of some information about the Casa Mendes and the family who lived there before the army medical service took it over. An administrative matter.”

Bright brown eyes surveyed them with amusement. “Well I can’t help much with that, Doctor, because I understand the place is rented through an agent. Although I imagine you knew that.”

Adam grinned. “I do, ma’am, and you have caught me out. I’m in search of gossip.”

The woman gave a broad smile. “Ordinarily, I would tell you that you have come to the wrong place, Doctor. Discretion is, after all, my business. In this case, however, there is no need for discretion since none of the Mendes family have ever patronised my establishment. Come through to my sitting room and I will give you a rather better wine.”

The sitting room was a comfortably cluttered room at the back of the house. Diana offered chairs and wine then seated herself in a comfortable armchair. Sean tried hard not to stare. It was many years since he had last visited a brothel as a very young officer but he was sure that it had been nothing like this. He looked around the room curiously and looked back to see that his hostess had caught him staring. She smiled.

“It is my place of work, Captain, but it is also my home. And since you are probably wondering, my English is so good because my father was English.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I was being rude.”

“No, just curious. What do you want to know?”

“Did you ever meet the Mendes family, ma’am?”

“Heavens, no. Dom Alfonso was a gentleman in his fifties, a widower for several years. There is a son, who serves at court in some capacity or other, so he went to Brazil when the royal family fled Lisbon. I believe the house is rented out through an agent.”

“You said ‘was’, ma’am.”

“Yes. Dom Alfonso died several years ago which means the house belongs to his son. I must tell you that I was not in Elvas at the time of these events, by the way, so I am repeating gossip. But I have heard the story often enough from a variety of local gentlemen, and I think it is largely true.”

“Go on.”

“When the French invaded in 1808, the house was occupied by Dom Alfonso and his sixteen year old daughter Juana. She was convent educated and I am told she had only recently been brought home because a marriage was being arranged for her. Her mother was already dead.

“Dom Alfonso could have fled south to Lisbon and joined his son, but he did not wish to leave his various properties to the mercy of the French, so he remained. He was apparently furious when they took the town, and very quickly commandeered his house as billets for French officers. He loathed the invaders and made no secret of it.

“They were here for six months and when they marched out after Lord Wellington’s victory at Vimeiro and the peace treaty, Dom Alfonso was left in the house again, without the invading officers but also without his daughter.”

“You mean she left? Or did she die?”

“Well that, of course, is the question. Here, I am afraid, there are several different versions, and I cannot tell you which is true. Dom Alfonso gave out the story that his daughter had been abducted and murdered by a French officer. He behaved from that day on as though she was dead, and very soon made arrangements to leave for Brazil to join his son. He never arrived, however, but died of some illness aboard ship.”

“But was the murder never investigated?” Sean asked. He had forgotten his awkwardness in her presence in his interest in her story. “Surely if he reported this to the local French commander, there would have been a court martial?”

“One would think so, but the French had gone before he ever told the tale,” Diana said. “This of course, led to a number of different theories which quickly spread through the town and probably contributed to his sudden decision to go to Brazil. Some people suggested that Juana’s father found her dead and killed the officer then hid his body. Another story was that the girl fell in love with the officer and left with him, either married or in disgrace. Either way, Mendes would never have forgiven an alliance with the enemy, so he cut her off entirely. I would like to believe that one.”

“Any others?”

“Many people seem to think that Mendes found out about the affair and killed the girl himself. I do not think he could possibly have killed her lover, since the French would have arrested him and the whole story would have come out. But his daughter? From what I’ve heard of him, I think he might have done it.”

“Do you think anybody suspected?” Adam asked.

“As I said, I wasn’t here then, but Elvas is a small place and Mendes had boasted about the grand Court marriage he planned for the girl. I think he might have considered she had dishonoured him. He was a minor member of the nobility and he had high hopes for the alliance.”

“What of her brother?”

“Still in Brazil as far as I am aware. When Dom Alfonso packed up and left for Brazil to join the royal family he employed Señora Avila with a small staff to take care of the house until a tenant could be found. I believe it was briefly used to billet some of the Light Division officers last year and then Mrs van Daan took it over for the 110th regimental hospital.”

“That poor girl,” Sean said softly. The woman studied him thoughtfully for a long moment.

“Yes, I’ve always thought it a very tragic story. As I said, I would love to believe she managed to leave with her French lover, but I am rather afraid she did not. I am longing to know why two English officers have such an interest in a long-buried local scandal.”

Sean could think of no answer that would not leave Miss Pereira thinking them mad, but Adam was better prepared. “There is a question over the lease,” he said. “If we are to make further improvements to the hospital, we would like to know that the family are not about to return, demanding their house back. The agent was odd about it, but it sounds as though he was concealing a scandal rather than avoiding a business arrangement. Thank you, Miss Pereira, you’ve been very helpful.”

Sean drank deeply. He was vaguely aware that the wine was excellent, but he found it hard to think of anything other than the thin, tragic figure of the girl in his room. He endured the rest of the visit as best he could and waited until they were well away from the tavern before he said:

“It has to be her.”

Adam glanced at him. “Our ghost?”

“Yes. It must be Juana Mendes. He killed her.”

“Her father or her lover?”

“Either of them. Or both of them, one way or another. She was just a child, straight out of the convent. Whatever they did to her between them, somebody should have been there to look after her.”

“Well if they didn’t, there’s nothing you can do about it now, Sean. She’s dead. She died four years ago.”

“Is that what you think? You don’t think she went off with her French lover?”

Adam glanced at him. “We’re probably never going to know for sure,” he said gently. “Honestly, we’ve found out more than I thought we would. I still don’t really know what it was that I saw that night in your room, but it’s clear we saw the same thing and if you add that to the story we’ve just heard, then I think it was some kind of ghost or spirit – the spirit of Juana Mendes. I wish there were something more we could do, but there isn’t. Unless you feel like talking to the local priest about an exorcism, and I must say…”

“No. Oh God, no,” Sean said, revolted. “You’re right, I need to let it go. I’m glad we found out what we did, though. Adam, thank you for this. For all of it. Wherever I end up, I’ll always be glad I had this opportunity to get to know you.”

***

High summer brought news from the front, of a spectacular victory at Salamanca and a march further into Spain. Wagons full of wounded and convalescent men made their way back to the general hospitals in Portugal and Adam Norris was so busy that he had no time to ponder the sad little story of Juana Mendes. The usual autumn sickness arrived early that year and Adam was grateful for Sean O’Connor’s capable presence as the hospitals were overrun and new premises became essential.

In November, they received word that Lord Wellington’s glorious campaign had come to an abrupt halt against the implacable walls of the citadel of Burgos and his Lordship’s army was retreating through appalling weather back to the safety of the Portuguese border, with the French snapping at their heels. Adam was supervising the unloading of a convoy of medical supplies outside the hospital when Sean joined him.

“The post is in. Endless letters telling us to expect a flood of sick and wounded. It sounds as though they’ve had another Corunna, poor bastards.”

“I know, I had a couple of letters from friends. Something went badly wrong with the supply chain.” Adam noticed that Sean was holding a letter. “What’s that?”

“A job offer,” Sean said. “Did you know about this?”

“Yes,” Adam said. “They wrote to ask if I would recommend you for the job. I said I would.”

“It comes with a promotion to major.”

“I also told them that I thought you were fully recovered and ready to return to combat if you should wish to do so, Sean.”

“I know. It’s my choice.” Sean looked around him. “It didn’t occur to me that I’d end up doing this permanently.”

Adam eyed him hopefully. “That sounds promising.”

“I ought to make you sweat, you underhanded bastard, you’ve been working at this, haven’t you?”

“Sean, it’s my job to make sure this place is well run. The improvement since you took over is astonishing, I’d have been mad not to ask them to make you permanent. But you can go if you want to. We’ll still be friends.”

“I’m staying. There’s so much to do here. In addition to running this place, they’ve made me district superintendent, which means I can inspect and make recommendations about the other hospitals.”

“Thank God for that,” Adam said. “The large convent is a bloody disgrace, I wouldn’t send an animal to stay there.”

They dined together in celebration and Adam felt pleasantly mellow as he settled to sleep. It had rained for almost a week and many of the town streets had turned to quagmires, the mud churned up by wagons and carts bringing in supplies and the first sick men from the retreat. Adam fell asleep thinking of the men currently marching into Ciudad Rodrigo with empty stomachs, camp fever and unhealed battle wounds and felt very fortunate.

He woke in darkness to an unfamiliar sound and sat up in bed. For a moment, disoriented, his mind flew to the apparition of the young girl and he wondered if this was some new manifestation of the ghost, but a moment later, he realised that what he was hearing was very much of this world. The rain was still falling, a strong wind driving it against the wooden shutters but there were sounds in the corridor outside, loud voices and footsteps and an alarming crashing sound.

Adam scrambled out of bed and into his clothing, then opened the door. Every occupant of the top floor of the Casa Mendes was there, the housekeeper and maids with cloaks and shawls over their nightclothes, and the clamour of voices was deafening.

“Sean, is that you? What the bloody hell is going on?” Adam called, and a voice floated up the stairs.

“The roof has caved in. Must have been a leak and the plaster has rotted. Thank God it’s above the empty room. Don’t go in there, Adam, it’s not safe. The rooms below are flooded though. Can you get everyone downstairs? I’m helping Fellowes down, he can’t make it on his own. The ground floor is dry, they’ll have to camp out down there until the morning, then we can get somebody to take a look.”

Adam groaned inwardly and turned his attention to the staff. Fortunately, after her initial panic, Señora Avila had regained her usual calm and was shepherding them downstairs with armfuls of bedclothes to find refuge in the dry part of the house. Adam made his way to the next floor down, where eight sick or wounded officers had their quarters. Sean had managed to light two oil lamps and was guiding the men, wrapped in blankets, down the narrow stairs, their feet splashing through water on the bare boards.

It was dawn before they were finally settled. The kitchen was in the basement and thankfully unaffected and as a grey light began to filter between the shutters, Señora Avila roused her staff and chased them upstairs to dress properly then down to the kitchen to begin preparing hot drinks and food for the exhausted invalids. Adam drank coffee with Sean in the mess room then rose with a sigh.

“Shall we have a look?”

“Might as well get it over with. The rain seems to have stopped, so I’d like to get someone out as soon as possible to start clearing up this mess so that Da Costa can have a proper look at it. I don’t want to have to give this place up if I can help it, Adam, not now. We’ll be back to having sick and injured officers scattered all over the damned place and with so many men coming in from this bloody retreat, we don’t need that. I want that roof repaired. We can round up enough convalescent men to do the clear up and if that’s not enough, I’ll write to Lord Wellington asking for a work party. There must be some men still on their feet in his army.”

“If it comes to that, I’ll write to Colonel van Daan. It will avoid a lot of unnecessary argument, he’ll just march them down here and claim it’s a training exercise,” Adam said with a tired grin. “But let’s see what we’ve got first.”

They made their way up the stairs, inspecting the damage. The south facing wall of the house was drenched, but not damaged and Adam thought that it could be dried out, as could the floorboards. They sounded walls and moved furniture and tested floorboards.

“I think we’ll have to keep an eye on that corner of the ceiling, but this is not as bad as I thought,” Sean said. “I wonder why it came down in such a deluge?”

“At a guess, I’d say the water has been pooling somewhere, it’s been raining for weeks. We’d better have a look in that empty room. Are you all right about that?”

“I’m fine, Adam. Come on.”

It was the first time Adam had been in the corner room since he had helped Sean move his possessions to his new quarters. The room was empty apart from some crates of medical supplies, the meagre furniture having been put to good use elsewhere. Fortunately, the equipment had been piled against the internal wall because the ceiling against the outside wall had completely collapsed. A pile of soaking, unpleasant smelling rubble was piled beneath a gaping hole and the room was covered in sticky plaster dust.

“What a mess.”

“It is. We’ll need to get this room cleared out as soon as possible and get the builder over to have a look. The first priority is to fix the roof, since it’s clear that’s how the water has been coming in. I’d guess it’s been collecting in the roof space above this room and soaking the plaster until it just gave.”

“Yes, the roof comes first. We could just board this up since nobody is using the room.”

Sean walked over to the pile of rubble and peered upwards into the dark hole. “I can see daylight up there,” he said. “I think a couple of tiles are missing.”

He paused and stood staring. Adam waited but his friend said nothing. After a while, Adam said:

“Sean? Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Sean turned. “Adam, this doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“This house. The roof of this house. Come with me.”

Adam followed him downstairs and out into the street. Although it was still early, there was a good deal of activity as the people of Elvas emerged after the storm. A few doors down, an elderly man stood on a ladder wielding a hammer, the nails held between yellow teeth as he repaired a broken shutter. Sean looked up at the house and Adam followed his gaze.

“Look at the slope of that roof. That’s the window of the small room. If you move this way a bit, you can see the missing tiles. That’s where the rain came in, it’s probably been collecting there for months.”

“Very likely, it will have rotted the boards through.”

“But what’s above there? It must be an enormous space.”

“You mean under the eaves? Attic space, I presume. There’s nothing odd in that, Sean, loads of houses have a decent amount of space under the eaves, most people use it for storage.”

“How do they get up there?”

“A loft hatch, usually. I’ve seen them with wooden pull down ladders in some old houses, or they just keep a ladder nearby to be used when they need it.”

“So why is there no hatch in this house?”

Adam stared at him blankly. “I don’t know. Isn’t there?”

“No. I’ve been in and out of all the rooms on the top floor since I took over as commandant and none of them has a hatch. In most of the houses I know, it’s above the corridor but there’s nothing there. Why wouldn’t there be? Everybody needs storage space. Even if the house was built without a hatch, it’s an old building. You’d think one of the owners at some point would have seen the need for it and put one in.”

Adam stared at him. Sean was right and for some reason the thought made him uneasy, although he was not sure why. “I can see your point,” he said slowly. “It is unusual. But why does it matter?”

Sean’s eyes were troubled. “Because I think there was a hatch,” he said softly. “Looking up where the ceiling came through, I can see the remains of a wooden square hanging down. I think there was a loft space and it’s been boarded up. That’s why the rain pooled so specifically in that area.”

“You mean…in that room?”

“Yes,” Sean said. “Is there a ladder about the place somewhere?”

“I think there’s one in the wood shed although I don’t know its condition. Sean are you sure?”

Sean turned back. “I have to,” he said, almost apologetically. “I have to know.”

***

They found the ladder attached to the wall in the wood shed. It looked in good condition and as they carried it up the stairs between them under the curious eyes of a number of the other occupants, Sean reflected that the last time he had climbed a ladder had been at Badajoz. He did not mention the fact to Adam, however, as he wanted to be the one to go up into the roof space and he did not want Adam fussing over his emotional state. Sean did feel emotional and a little shaky but that had nothing to do with his experience at Badajoz.

It took several minutes to work out the safest place to set the ladder. Adam looked at him, but Sean shook his head firmly. He could not have said why it was so important to him, but he needed to be the first to enter the roof space. Adam nodded and took firm hold of the ladder and Sean climbed up.

As his head and shoulders emerged above the ragged hole in the ceiling, he could see immediately that he had been right. Part of the wood had rotted away and been pulled down when the ceiling fell, but the remains of the square loft hatch were unmistakable. There had been no sign of it from below, Sean was sure. He had spent plenty of time looking up at that ceiling when he could not sleep, and he would have seen the outline. Somebody had not only boarded up the loft but plastered over it.

The space was enormous. It must stretch the full length of the top floor of the house and had clearly been used for storage at some point, since it was fully boarded with wooden planks laid over the rafters. A variety of objects were scattered about the room, all covered in a thick blanket of dust. The light was good, owing to the missing roof tiles, and Sean could see several chests, a pile of mouldy fabric which may have been curtains, a broken mirror and a battered table with miscellaneous objects piled on top of it. Further down the space were two stacked wooden chairs, a wicker basket and a sturdy box of the kind Sean had seen used to store letters and paperwork. At the far end was an old mattress with straw poking out from its torn cover. There was something lying on top of it which looked very much like another hand stitched quilt although this one was covered, like everything else, with a thick layer of dust.

Sean stepped off the ladder. The roof was steeply sloped and at its highest point down the middle of the attic, he could stand upright. He took two or three steps forward then stopped. After a moment he set off again. The sound of his steps was unmistakeable. Sean felt that it should have been obvious that the footsteps could have been from a room above his head, but then he had not known this space existed.

He stopped before he reached the mattress and stood looking down. Nothing could be seen other than the quilt, but Sean had absolutely no doubt that she was there. He waited for a moment, steeling himself, then bent and lifted the edge of the quilt very gently, coughing in the cloud of dust that arose.

Sean had been dreading some horror, some sign of the agony of her last days, but he supposed at the end, after long hours of pacing the room, probably of crying out for help, she had grown progressively weaker and had just lain down. The bones were white, resting within the tattered fabric of her shift. The most upsetting thing was her hair, which had not yet rotted away and lay dark against the white of her skull. Sean felt tears start to his eyes and he settled the quilt back over her as she had been before and turned away.

As he turned, he thought Adam had followed him up the ladder, but he quickly realised his mistake. The girl stood before him and in the bright daylight spilling through the broken roof, Sean saw her more clearly than ever before. Her eyes were a deep brown and must have been lovely before dehydration and starvation had hollowed out the sockets. There were the tragic remnants of beauty in the bone structure of her face.

Something was different though, and Sean felt a sudden chill as he realised what it was. For the first time, the girl was looking at him. Before, in the room below, she had been an image, like a portrait with eyes staring into nothing. Now the eyes were on his face and he was sure that she could see him. For a moment, he was terrified, and then the fear receded and instead he felt a deep and abiding sorrow.

“He left then, did he?” he said very softly. “Your lover? He probably had no idea what that evil bastard did to you. I don’t know what happened on that ship, but however he died I hope it was long and painful. I’m sorry, Juana. All I can do is see you properly buried, but that I’ll gladly do. Then you can rest, I hope.”

She said nothing, but Sean had an odd sense that she could hear him although he did not know if she would have understood since he had no idea if the living Juana understood any English. He could feel tears on his cheeks and as he blinked and then wiped them away, she was gone and there was no mark in the dust where she had stood.

***

The burial service was private, with only the priest, Sean, and Adam present. Sean used bribery, when persuasion had failed, to pay for a simple stone with Juana’s name and the dates of her birth and probable death. Adam listened in shocked silence to his friend’s account of his experience in the loft and did not question his insistence that Juana have a memorial. She was buried in an army coffin, wrapped in the dusty quilt from the attic and afterwards, Adam arranged for dinner to be served in his room and opened a bottle of wine.

“Are you ready to hear the rest?” he asked.

“The rest of what?”

“We’ve been clearing out the loft ready for the repairs. The carpenter is going to restore the hatch and put a proper ladder in so that it can be used for storage again.”

“Not while we’re here.”

“No, but in the future. The point is that they found some papers in a box and brought them to me as they’d no idea what else to do with them. They should go to the family agent but given how that girl was murdered by her own father, I felt no scruples about going through them, and I’m glad I did.”

“What did you find?”

“Letters. Her lover wrote several of them in the weeks after his immediate departure, asking her why she didn’t keep their appointment and begging her to join him. That bastard Mendes must have put them up there with her deliberately before he walled her up and left her to die. He probably thought it was fitting. I hope she found comfort in them.”

“Oh God, Adam. You mean there really was a French lover?”

“More like a French suitor, as far as I can see. He wanted to marry her and when the old man refused, they planned to elope. When the French marched out after Cintra she should have been with him as his wife.”

“I wonder if he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know, Sean, but I’m going to write to him to tell him that she died and where she’s buried. Not the details of how, he doesn’t need to know that. But if he’s still alive and still out there, I’d like him to know that she didn’t mean to let him down.”

“Can we do that?”

“Oh yes. There are regular channels of communication regarding prisoners and if we enclose a note explaining it’s about a family matter, they’ll see he gets it. It’s surprisingly reliable, I was a prisoner myself for eight months.”

“Do you mind if I do it?”

“Not at all. I have the letters here, you can read them. It gives his regiment four years ago, but if he’s moved on for promotion they’ll know how to find him.”

They finished dinner in companionable silence, then Adam produced the letters and finished his wine as Sean sat reading them. Afterwards, Adam was called to a patient in the main hospital. Sean walked part of the way with him then made his way through the town to the churchyard and stood in the gathering dusk before the fresh grave in the churchyard.

Sean could give no reason for his certainty that Juana Mendes was finally at peace. He thought about the young Frenchman who had fallen in love with her during those months at the Casa Mendes. The man’s letters had upset him with their increasing desperation at receiving no word from Juana. It was clear that he had loved her very much and Sean wondered if there were other letters, written after her death and destroyed by her vengeful father. Adam was right, the man deserved to know at least part of the truth.

It was full dark now, and Sean could barely see the grave. He bent his head and spoke a short prayer for Juana and for the young man she had loved, then he crossed himself and turned to walk back up to the hospital. He had paperwork to do, then he would open another bottle of wine in case Adam was back early enough to share a drink. While he was waiting, he would write a letter to his wife to remind her of how much he loved her, and another to a young French officer called Louis Bernard, to tell him that he too had been loved.

Author’s Note

The idea for this ghost story came from somebody I met locally who was reading my Peninsular War Saga and told me the story of his ancestor. Lieutenant Waldron Kelly, an Irish officer who served in Wellington’s army eloped with a well-born Portuguese girl and married her against furious opposition from her family. Mrs Kelly went back to Ireland, partly because her family threatened to kill her for disgracing them. The story is told in some detail in Charles Esdaile’s Women in the Peninsular War and is one of a number of tales of local women becoming involved with British soldiers. It occurred to me that this probably also happened during the French occupation, and that a Portuguese or Spanish family might have been even more angry if their daughter became involved with a hated invader.

While both Adam Norris and Sean O’Connor are fictional characters, there really were several general hospitals in Elvas and they would have been jointly run by a senior doctor and an officer commandant. Hospitals for officers were rare, although in 1813 the voluntary provision of a separate hospital for sick and wounded officers was finally included in regulations. It was hugely inconvenient for medical staff to have to travel to wherever a sick or wounded officer happened to be billeted, and there are several accounts of what appear to be informal hospitals for officers throughout the war. It seems madness to us today that considerations of rank were placed above good medical care, but Wellington’s army existed in a very different world.

 

 

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