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.

 

 

Alverstone by Beatrice Knight

Alverstone by Beatrice Knight is a carefully plotted Regency saga by an author who is new to me. I ran into the author on Twitter one day during a discussion about writing animals into fiction and was fascinated when she mentioned that some French officers took War Poodles on campaign with them. Honestly. War Poodles are a thing. How fabulous.

Anyway, back to the novel. When I began reading Alverstone, I was expecting a traditional Regency romance in the style of Georgette Heyer and her more modern counterparts. It quickly became obvious this was so much more than that. Beatrice Knight has created an entertaining family saga set during the Regency period. In fact there’s so much to this book it’s hard to know where to start.

Let’s begin with the characters. Knight introduces a big cast of characters from both ends of the social scale and handles them with professional ease. Her hero and heroine, Jasper and Charlotte are well-written and believable with all the necessary virtues but also plenty of faults. It’s something of a problem to me when a character is too perfect and there were moments where I wanted to yell at both of these two. At the same time they are both very likeable. I enjoyed their interactions with the rest of the characters as well as the relationship between them. 

Beatrice Knight’s research is impressive.  I know a lot about the Regency period because of my own books, both on and off the battlefield. Alverstone is set primarily in the social milieu of the era but moves into the military and political from time to time and the author gives the impression of being very much at home there too. I can be picky about detail in books of this kind but I found it hard to find fault. There were a couple of minor things that made me flinch, but interestingly when I looked them up I found the author was right. A reticule (small evening type bag) was indeed, at the time, also called a ridicule. I still prefer the former because a lot of people are going to think that’s a typo, but it isn’t.

Beatrice Knight’s writing flows very well and I enjoyed her style. She keeps a good sense of period but doesn’t drown the reader in Regency slang or try to base her writing on other authors; her voice is distinctly her own. The book was well paced, which is quite an achievement given that it’s fairly long and she held my interest to the end.

The book is very funny in places. There are several eccentric characters but they’re kindly drawn. I enjoyed Sylvie’s burgeoning friendship with Violet. I rather imagine we’ll be seeing more of these two in future books and I can’t wait. I was also delighted to meet Brodie the War Poodle who seemed to have made the transition from battle dog to pampered pet without a hitch.

So are there any criticisms of this book? To be honest, from my perspective no. I read it over a couple of days and I’m looking forward to the sequels. I do think it’s difficult to place this book into a particular genre. The cover screams Regency and it’s definitely rooted firmly and accurately in that period but it’s not a Regency romance as such. I hope that doesn’t put readers off. It reminds me more of the family sagas which were popular when I was young, written by people like Brenda Jagger and perhaps it’s time for these to make a comeback.

Family is a major theme in Alverstone. This is not just a romance about two people. The ties that bind the two households run throughout the book and I suspect will run on into the future. I look forward to seeing more of Jasper and Charlotte as well as their siblings and various dependents. I hope readers do give this book a chance because it’s well-researched, well-written and a lot of fun.

Fur and Feathers at War

The idea for Fur and Feathers at War came to me when the Historical Writers Forum announced that their April monthly theme would be Animals. When I began writing the Peninsular War Saga many years ago, I will freely admit I didn’t really think much about animals. I knew there would be some of course. Horses and pack animals were essential for early nineteenth century logistics and even though I wasn’t writing about the cavalry it was obvious they would feature.

As the books moved on, gained readers and then fans, it was clear however that animals were destined to play an important part in both series and the associated short stories. Apart from the transport and riding animals, we’ve had dogs, cats and even a budgie. Animals also feature as essential food and occasionally simply as comic relief. During the early nineteenth century, vegetarianism and veganism wasn’t generally an option.

Anybody who follows me on social media will know me as an animal lover. On Napoleonic Twitter, I’m sometimes referred to as the Mad Labrador Woman but there are also a variety of cats, birds and goldfish in my past. I’m unashamedly sentimental about animals while recognising that my officers and men cannot often afford to be. The horrors of war, particularly on horses, are very well documented elsewhere.

My animals tell my readers a great deal about my characters but by now, they are also characters in their own right. In honour of ‘Animals Month’ therefore, I thought I’d share some of my favourite fictional creatures. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

Horses

Horses and carriages were an essential form of transport in the early nineteenth century and most officers had several horses with them. Paul van Daan’s favourite horse is Rufus, a roan gelding he bought in Ireland before he went to Copenhagen in 1807. Right from the start, it’s clear that he is very attached to Rufus and although he is generally his first choice on a long march, Paul prefers not to take him into battle. On at least one occasion when he does, Rufus is injured when a bullet grazes his side and Paul’s reaction is a good indication of why he’d never have joined the cavalry.

An Uncommon Campaign, 110th at the Battle of Fuentes d'OnoroPaul hung on grimly, hearing the shouts of the men around him, and a furious volley of fire back at the enemy. Bringing Rufus finally under control he slid from the saddle feeling physically sick and ran his hand down the animal’s sweating neck.

“Good lad. Settle down and let’s look at you.”

“Sir.” One of the German captains had reached his side. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but he is, I felt him flinch. Hold him, would you? Christ, he’s shaking.”

Paul gave the reins to the German and moved around to study Rufus, quickly seeing the dark stain on his right shoulder.  Talking soothingly to his horse he moved closer and very gently examined the wound.  The horse tried to pull away and Paul held on and put his face against the smooth neck, whispering to Rufus as he checked the wound.

“I don’t think it’s too deep – a bad graze. He’s a bloody bad shot.”

“Nein, Colonel. He aimed at the horse, I was watching him,” the German said. Paul turned to look at him.  Around him he was aware that the sound of firing was dying away, only the shots of the rifles ringing out as they fired after the retreating cavalry.

“It’s Captain Steiger, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I was looking directly at him. As you turned away, he lifted his pistol and aimed it at you. And then he lowered it and pointed it at the horse.”

Paul was holding Rufus’ head close to him. He kissed the horse very gently on the nose and smiled as his mount nuzzled him. “Bastard.  He probably couldn’t see to aim at me in this light, so he went for the bigger target. If I see him on the field this week, I am going to blow his bloody head off. All right, boy, calm down. If you’re snuffling for treats, you’re not that bad.”

There are too many other horses involved in the Peninsular War Saga to list them all, but one of the most popular appeared in the Manxman series, when Paul’s battalion were sent to Denmark. For such a short campaign he chose not to subject his horses to the misery of a sea voyage, but managed to hire two horses from a local inn. One of them was a young horse called Felix. The other was Luna, an overweight piebald mare. I found it very entertaining to send my gallant hero trotting around Denmark on the equivalent of a Thelwell pony and my readers absolutely loved the story of Luna, especially how it ended. It’s probably the first time in the books that we glimpse just how sentimental Major van Daan really can be about animals.

“Captain, do you think you could spare Mr Durrell for an hour tomorrow to show me the way? After that, I promise I’ll be out of your hair, my wife will have forgotten what I look like.”

“Willingly,” Hugh said. “As long as he doesn’t come back telling me he’s accepted a commission in the army, I’d be less than pleased to lose him now that I’ve grown accustomed to a first lieutenant who knows what he’s doing.”

He saw the surprise in Durrell’s eyes and he avoided looking at Paul van Daan. The Major was already arrogant enough.

“Are you travelling post?” he asked.

“I am, although I’m taking it slowly as I’ve a horse to take with me. I bought the young black from Hr Lund. He’s a beauty, Lund had no idea what he’d got there.”

“Really? How the hell did you get him back?”

Paul laughed. “I paid an extortionate bribe to the captain in charge of one of the troop ships to find them a berth; it’s why I’ve taken a while to set off home, I’ve been waiting for them to arrive.”

“Them?” Roseen said.

Hugh saw the Major flush slightly. He met Roseen’s amused gaze and then laughed aloud. “I didn’t mean to admit that,” he said.

Hugh stared at him in astonishment. “Major, you aren’t telling me you bought that fat, ugly mare and paid to have her shipped to England?”

Paul was laughing. “I’ve two children, Captain, and she’s such a gentle soul.”

“And you could buy something similar at any horse fair in England for half the price. That animal is one step away from the slaughterhouse…”

He broke off, understanding, and then started to laugh. “Nobody could believe you were that soft,” he said.

“I would,” his wife said. “Does Sir Arthur Wellesley know?”

“No, thank God. And I am not telling him, he will roast me for years. I paid very little for her; Lund couldn’t believe I’d offered anything.”

“He’s not alone in that,” Hugh said.

“With proper care she’s got a good few years left in her and she will be good for the children, she’s got the sweetest nature.” Paul shrugged. “I got attached to her.”

“Christ, fella, how do you bring yourself to kill the French?” Hugh said.

“Oh, I’m very good at that. I hate killing their horses though.”

The other horse to play a very significant role in the books doesn’t arrive until book six and makes an immediate impact. I didn’t have to invent a name or description for Lord Wellington’s favourite mount, since Copenhagen was real. This is one horse that Paul is not particularly fond of.

“As it happens, I have several new horses I am trying out. One of them looks particularly promising, I’d like you to see him.”

Jenson led Rufus back into the square and Pearl followed Lord Wellington, frisking excitedly around him, knowing that she was going out. After a few minutes, one of the grooms appeared from the stable, leading a horse that Paul did not recognise.

He was a stallion, not particularly tall but with a strong muscular frame, a very dark chestnut with two white heels. Wellington came forward and patted the horse’s neck. Pearl jumped around and the horse sidestepped a little to avoid her. Paul came forward as his chief put a hand into his pocket and withdrew a treat. He fed the horse as his groom still held the reins, bent to check the girth then put one foot into the stirrup and mounted.

Unexpectedly, the horse pulled away from the grooms, backing up fast, his teeth bared in a grimace. Wellington hung on and the groom reached for the bridle. The horse bucked and then reared up with a squeal, his hooves lashing out. One caught the groom on the shoulder, and he fell back with a cry of pain. Wellington clung to the reins, displaying impressive reactions, fighting to bring the animal under control, while Jenson turned Rufus away and led him out of range before the horse’s panic affected him.

As Paul tried to grasp the bridle, the horse kicked out hard with his back legs and Paul dodged, then moved in fast, and reached the horse, grabbing the bridle while taking care to avoid the animal’s flying hooves. Wellington had regained his composure immediately and took a firm hold, pulling the horse in, talking to it in low tones. Paul met his chief’s eyes and stepped back, releasing the horse. With another man he might have held on until he was certain that the horse was calm, but he was not afraid for Wellington, who was a superb rider and more than capable of managing the most difficult mount. Paul stood watching for a moment, to be sure, but Wellington had the animal well under control. Paul turned to the groom, who was being helped to his feet by Wellington’s orderly.

“Are you all right, Brett?”

“I think so, sir.” Brett was cautiously moving his arm. “Winded me a bit.”

“You should see the surgeon, just to get him to have a look at that, it was a hell of a kick.”

“I’ll be all right, sir. I’m sorry, my Lord, he caught me off guard. Shall I take him…?”

“Do not be stupid, Brett, if you are injured, you may not be able to control him, and besides he will settle down now that he knows who is in charge. Morrison, escort Brett to see a surgeon. General van Daan, stop fussing over the poor man like a mother hen, you are making him uncomfortable.”

“I think it was the kick in the shoulder from that ungainly brute that has made him uncomfortable, sir. Where in God’s name did you get him from?”

“He has recently arrived from Lisbon. I am in need of one or two new mounts and Gordon heard that Charles Stewart had two to sell prior to his departure.”

“Charles Stewart sold you that horse? I’d ask for my money back, sir, you’ve been robbed.”

“Nonsense,” Wellington said. He was stroking the smooth chestnut coat. “He rides well, he is very strong and he doesn’t seem to tire easily. He is a little testy, it is true…”

“A little testy?” Paul surveyed the horse in disgust. The horse returned his stare with a baleful eye. “If you want my opinion, he’s a cross-gained, bad-tempered brute who is likely to throw you in the middle of a battle.”

“He will settle down once he is accustomed to me, and understands that I will brook no defiance, General,” Wellington said, watching as Paul retrieved his own horse and swung himself into the saddle.

“Like the rest of the army then, sir.”

“With one notable exception. Brett, why are you standing with your mouth hanging open, when I am sure I instructed you to visit the surgeon?”

“Yes, my Lord. Very sorry.”

Paul eyed the horse as they rode out of the village. “What’s his name?”

“Copenhagen.”

“He’s Danish?”

“No, but he was foaled in ’07. Probably just about the time you were getting yourself court-martialled for insubordination towards senior officers of the Royal Navy. It is a pity he is already named, I would have liked to have come up with something in memory of such a significant event.”

“What an excellent idea, sir. You could have called him Popham, he’s got that smug expression, with a strong look of being up to no good behind the eyes. I just hope that when he throws you, it’s not in the middle of a fight. I’ll tell Fitzroy to look out for the eye-rolling and bared teeth just in case.”

“If he proves too troublesome, General, you could take him off my hands. Perhaps you would like to exchange him for that black you bought in Denmark? I have always liked the look of him, he is far too good a horse for your orderly to be riding.”

“Felix? Not a chance. If you think I’d put Jenson up on this bad-tempered bastard, sir, you must be all about in your head. Send him back to Stewart and ask for your money back.”

“Knowing Charles Stewart, I imagine that the money has already been spent on expensive Madeira and port for the voyage home. Besides, I have no desire to send Copenhagen back. I will offer you a wager, if you like, that within the year, he will have proved his worth. I am tired of horses blowing up halfway through a fast journey. I think I may have found the mount I have been looking for.”

“If you like, sir. I’ll happily stake a case of good port that you’ll be looking to get rid of him in a year. What’s your stake?”

Wellington touched his white neckcloth. “A broken neck, if you prove to be right, General.”

“That’s not funny, sir.”

Dogs

A Briard, giving a good idea of how I visualise Craufurd.

In addition to the equine population, my books host a fine collection of dogs. Dogs are my passion and you can reliably assume that if a character in my books is a dog lover, they’re going to be one of the good guys.

The first and most famous dog to be introduced belongs to Anne van Daan, who somewhat irreverently named him after Major-General Robert Craufurd. Paul found the puppy amidst the horrors of the sacking of Badajoz and presented him to Anne. Since then, Craufurd has grown into an enormous shaggy hound who is frequently a menace to his surroundings. He provides a lot of comic moments with his tendency to chew up Paul’s paperwork and Anne’s hats but he proved his worth during the miserable retreat from Madrid and Burgos when he attacked a French dragoon to save Anne’s life.

Paul grumbles incessantly about Craufurd but obviously adores him. In An Indomitable Brigade however, there is trouble at headquarters during a briefing meeting.

“General Victor Alten, you will take your brigade directly through Salamanca via the old bridge. General Fane, you will cross by the fords below Santa Marta. I imagine you are right, General van Daan, they will have retreated before we arrive, they must have reports of our approach by now. I believe that is everything. Unless there are any questions…what the devil is that?”

There was a scrabbling sound from outside, and then a crash as the door was flung open against the wall. All the men turned to face the intruder, and both Lord March and General Fane went so far as to draw their swords, while General Alava stepped between Wellington and the door. Paul did not move. He knew it was unnecessary, as the would-be assassin would come to him. He stood braced.

Something large and hairy bounded across the room and hurled itself at Paul. Standing on its hind legs, it placed huge paws on his shoulders and managed one enthusiastic lick across his face before Paul caught its legs and placed it firmly back on the ground with a sharp command.

“Craufurd, down.”

Anne’s large shaggy grey dog obeyed immediately, his tail wagging excitedly. He looked remarkably pleased with himself, and Paul wondered if there was any possibility that Craufurd had found his way to the kitchen and the leftovers. He loved food and had an astonishing appetite.

“For God’s sake, what is that dog doing here?” Wellington exploded. “This is supposed to be a military headquarters, not a menagerie. Did you bring him here, Van Daan?”

“Well, I brought him as far as the stable, sir,” Paul admitted. “I didn’t invite him to dinner though. I am sorry, he needed a run. Clearly it wasn’t far enough. Will you excuse me, I’ll just…there you are, Jenson. What on earth happened?”

Paul’s orderly appeared in the doorway, looking harassed and a little dishevelled. “Sorry, sir. Sorry, my Lord. He was locked in one of the stalls, but he must have chewed his way through the latch. I found him in the kitchen with Pearl, but I don’t think he’s done any damage. I don’t know what’s got into him lately. I’ll get him out of here.”

Craufurd rose and trotted politely towards the orderly. He allowed Jenson to attach his lead and followed him out of the room walking perfectly to heel. Paul noticed that the back of Jenson’s uniform was covered in mud which suggested that he had been knocked off his feet by Craufurd at some point during the chase. Jenson closed the door behind him. There was a long, pointed silence. Both March and Fane sheathed their swords, looking rather embarrassed, and Alava moved away from his protective stance in front of Lord Wellington. The officers shuffled silently back to their previous positions around the table.

Paul risked a look at Wellington and was not at all surprised to see that Wellington was glaring at him. When he finally spoke, it was in the voice of a man driven beyond all endurance.

“Somerset, remind me to carry a loaded pistol to all briefing meetings in future.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Paul was fighting back laughter. “I don’t think my wife would like it if you shot her dog, sir.”

“It was not the dog I was thinking of shooting. Does anybody have any questions about my orders?”

Wellington’s tone suggested that questions would be wholly unnecessary, and none were asked. Outside, the officers collected their horses. Nobody spoke about the incident. Jenson brought Paul’s horse forward, and once the other officers were all mounted, released Craufurd from his prison in the stables. The dog frisked around excitedly. Paul looked down at him.

“My career means nothing to you, does it?” he said.

There was a curious sound behind him. Paul turned to find Charles Alten leaning forward on the neck of his horse. He was laughing so hard that he was almost choking. Beyond him, both Kempt and Vandeleur were helpless with mirth. Paul began to laugh as well.

“This bloody dog. I’m going to get him out of here before his Lordship finds that pistol. Not that he’s likely to hit anything, but I don’t want to take the chance. There’s always a lucky shot.”

This gives an idea of how I visualise Pearl

Craufurd’s impromptu visit to headquarters proved more than a temporary embarrassment for Paul. The previous Christmas, the Van Daans had given Lord Wellington a silvery-grey hunting greyhound called Pearl. His Lordship had grown very attached to her and was not at all amused to discover she was expecting puppies.

Paul took the letter and unfolded it. Johnny watched as he read it with a deepening look of puzzlement.

“What is it, Paul?” Anne asked.

“He’s expecting to be with us the day after tomorrow, and there’ll be orders to march out. But he’s in a bad temper about his hunting bitch.”

“Pearl?” Anne said. “Oh no, is she all right? Has something happened to her?”

“I believe she’s very well, given the circumstances,” Paul said. “It seems she’s expecting a litter of puppies.”

“Puppies?” Johnny said blankly. “What in God’s name does that have to do with you? Even Wellington can’t blame you for…”

There was a sharp bark at the top of the stairs. Anne got up and went to the bottom. “He doesn’t like the polished stairs,” she said. “Come on Craufurd, down boy. Take it slowly and you’ll be all right.”

Both Paul and Johnny turned to watch as Anne coaxed her enormous dog down the slippery stairs. A sudden thought occurred to Johnny, and he turned to look at Paul. Paul was studying his wife with an expression of deep foreboding.

“Nan. Before he turns up here yelling, can you tell me…is there even a remote possibility…?”

Anne turned. Her face was pink with the attempt to stifle her laughter and there were tears in her eyes. “Paul, you know there is. Don’t you remember when you took Craufurd up to Headquarters and then wished you hadn’t because he escaped from the stables and came racing into the room halfway through Lord Wellington’s briefing?”

“Yes,” Paul said in hollow tones. Craufurd had reached the bottom of the stairs. He trotted over to Paul and pushed his shaggy head into his hand. Paul stroked him. “He was wagging his tail as if he’d managed to steal the roast mutton. I wondered what he was so pleased about.”

“Of course, it might not be,” Anne said hopefully.

“It will be,” Paul said morosely. “That bitch is going to give birth, every one of the puppies is going to closely resemble this oversized carpet on legs and I am going to be hearing about this for the rest of my army career. Possibly for the rest of my life.”

Johnny and Anne dissolved into laughter. Paul attempted a glare, but Johnny could see that it was an effort. Eventually, he grinned.

“He is going to be such a pain in the arse about this. Never mind. Go and write to Mary, Johnny. When you’re done, we’ll open a bottle of wine, and we will discuss Ensign Fox and Sergeant Stewart. Let’s get them out of the way before dinner.”

India, the puppy at the centre of Eton Mess

A dog provides a crucial plotline in one of my short stories as well. Eton Mess tells the story of Paul van Daan’s schooldays and introduces young Toby Galloway who is trying to conceal his spaniel crossbreed puppy named India from the school bullies. Galloway is a true dog lover and when we meet him again in a later short story, An Unsuitable Arrangement it’s clear that India was by no means the only dog in his life.

 

 

 

“My mother would like to meet you. I’ve written to her and told her all about you. You’d love it there. They’re good sorts, my family, and the place is full of horses and dogs. Do you like dogs?”

“Yes,” Elinor said. She was beginning to realise that this conversation had nothing to do with travel arrangements and her heart lifted. The Colonel was beginning to describe his favourite spaniel cross-breed and Elinor recognised nervousness. She allowed him to go on for a while because she was enjoying the sound of his voice and the opportunity to study his pleasant face and kind brown eyes. It might be a long time before she saw him again and she wanted to commit them to memory.

She would have been happy for the conversation to continue but the door opened and Beattie’s copper head poked around it, damp with spray.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“Have you not done it yet?”

Galloway flushed slightly. “I was just telling Miss Spencer that…”

“Stop telling her things and try asking her something. The boat’s waiting and we can’t miss the tide. My employer has been remarkably patient about all this but he’ll be getting to the stage of pacing the room and remembering why he thought about dismissing me two years ago.”

“Why did he…?”

“Get on with it!” Beattie yelled and closed the door.

Elinor could feel laughter bubbling up, filling her with joy. Galloway looked down at her and seemed to catch both her happiness and her understanding. He reached out and took her hand.

“I always knew if I ever reached the moment of wanting to do this that I’d make an absolute mess of it.”

“You’re not, Tobias.”

“I am. But I don’t have time to tell you the history of every dog I ever owned. I’ll let my mother do that. She’s going to write to your uncle and I promise you he’ll make no objection to you going to stay with her. With Juliet as well, of course. And will you call me Toby? All my friends and family do.”

Cats

Horses and dogs fit well into the action of the Peninsular War Saga but the Manxman series is about the Royal Navy where Captain Hugh Kelly and First Lieutenant Alfred Durrell have the ship’s cats to contend with. In This Blighted Expedition, Durrell finds himself explaining the situation to Miss Faith Collingwood in rather more detail than he had intended.

Molly, the cat on whom I based the ship’s cat of the Iris…

There was a big flat rock, almost dry now, and Durrell took off his coat for her to sit on. She did so, dropping the hat beside it and lifting her face to the sunlight. It brought a sudden image to Durrell, and he laughed aloud.

“What is funny?”

“You reminded me of something, but I’m not sure if I should tell you, you might be offended.”

“Something you like?”

“Yes. Secretly.”

“I am intrigued, Lieutenant. Tell me, it is your duty to entertain me today.”

“It was the way you lifted your face towards the sun and stretched a little. It reminded me of Molly, the ship’s cat aboard the Iris. She likes to sunbathe on the quarterdeck in hot weather. When we were off Gibraltar last year I was forever falling over her.”

Faith gave a broad smile. “I like cats. I wish I could have a pet, but my father will not permit it. He says they track in dirt and leave hairs on the furniture.”

“Well, he’d loathe Molly then, she leaves hairs everywhere.” Durrell grinned. “When I first joined the Iris three years ago, I realised we had a problem with vermin. All ships do, of course, which is why most ships carry a cat. Molly has been there for years. Generally speaking, a cat stays with the ship, but Captain Kelly was so attached to her that he brought her from his previous ship, the Newstead. It didn’t take me long to realise that the reason Molly was such a useless hunter was because the captain lets her sleep on the end of his bunk and feeds her choice scraps from his dinner. She has no need to hunt whatsoever.”

“Oh no.”

“I took my duties very seriously back then and I didn’t really know the Captain. I delivered several rather long lectures to him about the problem and spent a lot of time collecting Molly and dumping her below to do her job. It didn’t improve the situation at all, but that’s because she was sharing the midshipmen’s dinners instead. She’s very fat and very lazy.”

“What did you do?”

“Found another cat when we were in Chatham. I explained to Captain Kelly that I’d found a new home for Molly on shore. Captain Kelly explained to me that if it was such a good home, I could live in it myself. It was fairly clear that given a choice between myself and that cat, I was going to be the loser.”

“So Molly stayed?”

“Molly is probably snoozing on the Captain’s bunk as we speak. I did bring another cat aboard, though. His name is Orry and he’s a very good hunter which is just as well because he very quickly had a family to feed. It didn’t occur to me to find another female.”

Faith was laughing uncontrollably. “Oh, no. How many kittens?”

“Eight survived. We kept four of them, the rest went to other ships and the Captain took Orry to the ship’s surgeon who performed a small operation to ensure there were no more.”

Durrell paused, suddenly appalled. He had completely relaxed into the conversation, and it had not occurred to him that it was not acceptable to be discussing a cat’s sex life with a young lady he hardly knew. He could feel himself flush, but before he could stammer an apology, Faith said:

“My aunt has three cats and had to do the same thing. I am very glad Molly won you over, though.”

Molly and Orry are very well-travelled moggies and are still going strong aboard HMS Iris in the most recent book, This Bloody Shore.

Jannie the Budgerigar.

My decision to introduce a budgie into This Blighted Expedition was prompted by this very beautiful painting which I found in one of the museums in Vlissingen during my research trip. My female main character, Katja de Groot is a prosperous widow raising three children and running her late husband’s textile business. When I saw this portrait it looked so much like the character I visualised that I decided to research whether budgies had been introduced into Europe in 1809. There was no definitive date, but traders definitely started bringing them in around that time so I decided to give Katja a pet bird called Jannie.

A sound caught his attention and he turned. There was a cage on the far side of the room, hanging from a hook in the ceiling before the window. Ross rose and went to look at the bird. It was small and a beautiful shade of blue, like a miniature parrot with black and white markings down its wings. Ross had never seen anything like it before. He touched the bars of the cage and the bird immediately waddled along its perch and nibbled delicately at his finger, surveying him disapprovingly, with a beady eye.

“What kind of bird is it?” he asked.

Katja came to join him. “I do not know the name. Cornelius bought him from an English trader in Vlissingen docks for my birthday. We call him Jannie. He can speak.”

Ross shot her a surprised glance. “Really?”

Katja laughed. She said something in Dutch and the bird mimicked her, managing the odd guttural sound of the language very well. Ross started to laugh.

“I don’t believe it, that’s amazing. What did he say?”

“He said good day to you, Captain,” Katja said mischievously. “I am very fond of him. He was the last gift Cornelius gave to me. The children are very naughty and try to teach him things he should not say.”

“I’m not surprised,” Ross said, still laughing. “Perhaps I should teach him some English.”

“They would enjoy that very much.”

 

These are just a few of the animals who wander through the pages of my books and short stories. I love writing about them and find them a really useful way to highlight some of the traits of my characters as well as a way of making people laugh. They’ve proved very popular with my readers and people who message me about the books are just as likely to ask about Craufurd and Pearl as they are to ask about Paul and Anne. Sometimes, in moments of high stress it helps to have a dog or cat to stroke and I don’t see why my characters should miss out on that.

I’ll leave you some photos of the real animals who have kept me company over the years here at Writing with Labradors…

 

Joey and Toby
Oscar and Alfie

 

 

Old Kirk Braddan Church and Cemetery

Old Kirk Braddan Church and Cemetery

(Or how I can find a Napoleonic connection literally ANYWHERE)

I’ve mentioned before on this blog that I have something of a passion for old churches. One of my favourites is Kirk Braddan; not the newer Victorian building which houses the current congregation although that is very attractive. Inevitably though, I’m drawn to the older church next door. It’s no longer used regularly but services are still held there occasionally. For me, it has the atmosphere of the period I love most. It also has one or two interesting Napoleonic tombs.

I found myself at Old Kirk Braddan earlier this week when I had an hour to kill before meeting my editor and it wasn’t worth going home first. I went initially to explore the ancient churchyard, which I love, especially at this time of year when the snowdrops and crocuses are just coming into bloom. Once there, I couldn’t resist popping into the church. It’s quiet and very lovely, with the slightly musty smell that I associate with old buildings that are seldom used.

 

There has been some form of religious worship on this site for fourteen centuries and stones from the first Celtic Keeill (Chapel) can be dated back to around 400 AD.  Old Kirk Braddan was rebuilt on the site of an older church in 1777 and is dedicated to Saint Brendan or Braddan.  Unlike many other eighteenth century churches, it was never updated during the Victorian era and retains its original box pews, gallery and a three decker pulpit, with a lectern, minister’s pew and pulpit above. It remained the parish church until 1876 when it was replaced by the new church.

The church contains a number of Celtic and Norse crosses from the period 800-1265, which were found around the parish.  Several of these bear a ring chain design which is associated with the sculptor, Gaut, son of Bjorn, who came from the island of Coll in the Hebrides and settled on the Isle of Man. Gaut is considered one of the best carvers of his time which was between 950 and 1040 AD. One of the crosses bearing his designs has been translated as “Gaut created this and all in Mann”. His carvings are of a style seen in many Celtic and later Scandinavian crosses.

Beyond the Manx crosses, towards the altar, there’s an impressive memorial up on the wall, looking surprisingly elaborate for such a simple church.

 

 

 

Sacred to the memory of the Honourable Richard Murray
Son of the late Lord Henry Murray
Nephew to the late John Duke of Atholl
and formerly Lieut. Col. of Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards.
Having honourably served his country in India
And subsequently on the continent of Europe under
Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington.
He retired to the Isle of Man
where he was elected a Member of the House of Keys,
and in that capacity long and zealously exerted himself
to promote the welfare of the Island.
He departed this life October 16th 1843, aged 55 years.

Also to the memory of his son Richard Green Murray
Who died February 15th 1856 aged 15 years

This monument is erected by his Widow, as a small
but sincere token of regard for the memory
of a most considerate husband, and a most amiable child.

For I know that thou wilt bring me to death;
and to the house appointed for all living.
Job xxx.23

It appears that Richard Murray was first married to Catherine Bacon, the daughter of John Joseph Bacon,  in 1811. After she died in 1817 he remarried in 1819 to Margaret Tenison, daughter of William Barton Tenison of Lough Bawn, Co. Monaghan. Margaret died in 1864 and her monument is on the opposite wall to that of her husband and son.

Naturally the sight of Wellington’s name in a local church was enough to get me excited. I’ve not been able to do much research yet about Richard Murray’s career in the army, but I will get back to you all once I’ve done so. It feels satisfyingly familiar though, to be reading the memorial to one of Wellington’s officers in my home town, where if there is a memorial at all, it tends to be for the navy rather than the army. Hugh Kelly would fit in here whereas Paul van Daan would be a bit of an anomaly.

I was aware of another memorial in the churchyard which is known locally as the Atholl monument. Since Murray was the name of the local Dukes of Atholl I went scrambling around among the overgrown graves. It took some time because the place is beautiful; a tangle of greenery dotted with moss covered stones. This is no modern, neatly laid out graveyard, but a piece of history. Many of the graves are sadly difficult to read but one or two are clear enough to give an indication of the long history of Kirk Braddan. 

 

The Atholl monument turned out to be a large obelisk in the centre of the churchyard in honour of Lord Henry Murray, fourth son of John 3rd Duke of Atholl who was born in 1767 and died in the December of 1805. Lord Henry was the Lieutenant-Colone Commandant of His Majesty’s Regiment of Royal Manx Fencibles.

Henry Murray was appointed Colonel of the newly formed Royal Manx Fencibles in September 1795. In 1786 he married Eliza Kent and they had one son and five daughters. In 1796 the regiment was deployed to Derry because of unrest which led to the the Irish Rebellion of 1798 and in June of that year Murray ordered the burning of Ballymoney in reprisal for the rebellion. In February 1802 he went to Bath to recover from an attack of gout and later that year, following the Peace of Amiens, his regiment was disbanded. From 1804 Murray acted as Lieutenant-Governor and Deputy to his brother, John Murray, 4th Duke of Atholl, in his role as Governor of the Isle of Man.

Henry Murray died only a year later. His monument in Kirk Braddan Churchyard bears the inscription “This sincere testimonial of affection and deep regret for their commander and their friend is erected by the officers of the Regiment.” It was an age when tombs were expected to express sentimental feelings, but there is something rather touching about that very simple sentiment. Henry Murray was only thirty-eight when he died and may well have been a popular commander of the short-lived Fencibles, however unpopular he made himself in Ireland. Richard, his son, would have been seventeen when his father died and it is probable that an army career felt inevitable for him.

In researching this post I discovered that one of Henry Murray’s daughters made a marriage that really brought me close to my comfort zone in the Peninsular War of the early nineteenth century. In 1829 Amelia Jane Murray (usually known as Emily) married General Sir John Oswald. She was twenty-nine and he was a widower of fifty-eight who had previously been married to her cousin.

I’m very familiar with Oswald from the Peninsular War Saga. Oswald was born in Fife and educated in France, which meant he spoke good French and had close connections with the French aristocracy. Understandably he loathed the excesses of the French Revolution and wasn’t much keener on Bonaparte’s Empire. He served in the West Indies, the Netherlands, Malta, Italy, Egypt, the Adriatic and finally the Peninsular War under Wellington. He had a distinguished military career and his two marriages into the family of the Duke of Atholl clearly gave him a long connection to the Isle of Man.

In book eight of the Peninsular War Saga which I’m currently writing, Oswald is about to have a difficult time at the siege of San Sebastian. I’m delighted I’ve found out about this now as it will give me a different sense of connection to the man. Incidentally, his second wife had a distinguished career of her own as a Victorian artist who specialised in fairies – a terribly Manx thing to do. I’d heard of her many times and seen her work but I had no idea she was married to one of Wellington’s generals. It’s like discovering that two old friends know each other.

Back out in the churchyard, I wandered around admiring the snowdrops and making up stories in my head about some of the older graves. I wish more of them were legible.  There are no neat paths laid out between the stones in this graveyard. It’s a little sad but also very beautiful compared to the neat rows of stones in a modern cemetery. As I was on a historic tour there was one more grave I wanted to see, also from my era but very different. Fortunately this one is well labelled now and the inscription very plainly copied.

“An African slave of St Helena died the 28th of May 1822 aged 18 years. Born a  slave and exposed in early life to the corrupt influence of that unhappy state, he became a model of truth and probity for the more fortunate of any country or condition. This stone erected by a grateful Master to the memory of a faithful servant who repaid the boon of Liberty with unbounded attachment.”

I know no more than that about Samuel Ally and his master and thus far I’ve not made an attempt to dig any further. Perhaps there is nothing more to find. I like the fact that this grave is marked and easy to find in Kirk Braddan Churchyard though. One one level it’s a rather lovely tribute from a master to a young servant. On another, it’s an important reminder of the significant involvement of the Isle of Man in the slave trade. There are probably a lot more such reminders scattered around the island. I’m fascinated by the topic and if I ever managed to drag myself to the other side of my two Napoleonic war sagas I’d like to find out more about it. There’s one book that I’ve found so far, which is informative but a bit dry and I know the museum has produced some material but I have a feeling there’s a lot more to be discovered.

With time running out, I made my way back to the car, careful not to trip over a fallen gravestone in the tangle of grass and plants. I love ancient churches and graveyards and I’ve a feeling there are a few more I’ve not yet properly explored on the island so expect further posts. I especially love those which would have been here, an important part of island community life when my Manx sea captain and his wife first met in 1806 or returned to visit in 1811. Standing in these quiet places imagining those people gives me a very real sense of history.

An Unsuitable Arrangement

Welcome to an Unsuitable Arrangement, my Valentine’s Day short story for 2023. As always, it’s free so please share as much as you like.

The story is set in the city of Santander in 1813. Most of the ports in northern Spain were occupied by the French until 1812, when a Royal Navy squadron under the command of the inimitable Sir Home Popham was sent to co-operate with the Spanish irregular forces along the coast to distract the French while Lord Wellington advanced to Salamanca, Madrid and then on to Burgos. Popham managed to keep the French busy and liberated several of the coastal towns but he was recalled towards the end of 1812 as Wellington’s army made their miserable retreat from Burgos back to the Portuguese border. The story of that retreat is told in An Untrustworthy Army, book 5 of the Peninsular War Saga.

Santander was briefly reoccupied by the French, but as Wellington marched to victory at Vitoria in 1813, the garrison was withdrawn again, leaving the Spanish inhabitants to cope with the burden of being a major supply depot for the army. Managing these difficulties was a major headache for the officers of the quartermaster’s department and there is no evidence that Lord Wellington was sympathetic about it.

Some of the more eagle-eyed readers among you might recognise that I have borrowed from the true story of Lieutenant William Waldron Kelly who eloped with a high-born Portuguese girl and had to leave Portugal because of threats from her family. Regular readers will also recognise a number of characters from previous books or short stories.

For those of you who prefer not to read online I’ve attached a pdf of the story below.

An Unsuitable Arrangement

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody.

An Unsuitable Arrangement

Santander, July, 1813

It was past noon when the Lady Emma, an English merchantman out of Southampton, dropped anchor off the Spanish port of Santander. Captain O’Halloran, an Irishman who had learned his trade the hard way as a pressed man in the Royal Navy, invited his passengers to drink a glass of wine in his day cabin while arrangements were being made for the cargo and the passengers to be unloaded. Elinor Spencer suspected that he was keen for the passengers to go first. It had not been an easy voyage.

Elinor had no experience of travel by sea, but she had heard horrendous tales from her uncle about sea-sickness and the danger of French privateers. She was relieved to discover that she was a surprisingly good traveller and the French made no appearance; but the rest of the voyage was a nightmare from start to finish.

There were five passengers aboard the Lady Emma. The two British officers were returning to duty from sick leave while Elinor was accompanied by her younger sister Juliet and their maidservant. Juliet and Eliza had been sick for the entire voyage and Elinor had found herself nursing both of them. She had seen nothing of the two gentlemen, but had been told by Captain O’Halloran that they had been similarly affected. Elinor thought it was rather a shame that most of her first voyage had been spent below decks dealing with the unpleasant results of other people’s sea-sickness. The times she had managed to get away to dine with the Captain and take the air on deck had been very pleasant.

After a little persuasion Juliet had agreed to accompany her sister to the Captain’s impromptu gathering. Elinor was not surprised when she brightened considerably at the sight of the two young officers. Within five minutes they were vying for her attention, leaving Elinor to sip her wine and talk to the Captain. She had struck up a firm friendship with him during the voyage and was aware that he was concerned about two young ladies travelling so far without a male escort.

“Your sister seems much better, ma’am.”

“She will be fine once we are ashore although I imagine she’ll be dreading the voyage home. She shouldn’t have come. I would have managed perfectly well on my own and…”

“Neither of you should have made this journey, it’s a disgrace,” the Captain said. Elinor had not expected him to be quite so frank. She stared at him and he gave a little smile and bowed. “Your pardon, ma’am. I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m a blunt-spoken man. Having met you, I perfectly understand why your fiancé didn’t want to wait until the end of this war for the wedding. But he should have asked for leave and waited for it to be granted. I can make allowances for a man in love, but this is ridiculous. The towns along this coast have only recently been taken back from the French. The Spanish authorities are struggling to organise themselves and are sinking under the weight of demands for supplies and accommodation from both the British army and the Navy.”

“You don’t think there’s a risk that the French will attack the town, Captain?”

O’Halloran shook his head. “No, ma’am, I think you’re perfectly safe from that. Lord Wellington is very much in control now and I don’t think Bonaparte has the men. But this is a difficult situation and I think you and your sister would be better at home. However, it’s not my decision. We’ll get you ashore as soon as we can and I’ve asked Mr Beattie to escort you. I’m sure your fiancé has arrangements in place but if anything were to go wrong Beattie will know what to do. We’re picking up a contingent of wounded men going back to England. We’ll be here for at least a week and possibly longer given that we’ve a few repairs after that storm. Don’t hesitate to send a message, ma’am, if you need to.”

Elinor felt the prickle of tears at his kindness. “That’s very good of you, Captain, but we haven’t paid for passage home. And I’m sure Mr Beattie has other things to do. I understand he is acting as your clerk temporarily?”

“It’s not his job, ma’am, he works for the owner. But I’ll admit he’s been useful. As for the passage home, I don’t care. We’ve space and if you run into trouble, we can sort out the details later. I don’t like the idea of two English ladies going ashore without a man to protect them. It’s not right. But Beattie will look after you and hand you over to Major Welby, never fear.”

O’Halloran finished his wine, then excused himself and went back to his duties. Elinor glanced over at her sister and decided that she would be very well entertained, so she made her way up onto deck and took up a position at the rail. She watched the bustle of activity on shore and on the water, as small boats rowed out to the ships with supplies, passengers and messages. Santander was an attractive town from this distance; a jumble of tiled roofs and white painted houses interspersed with church towers and spires. Above it all rose the rocky slopes of the Peñacastillo mountain. The sky was a clear blue and the sun reflected diamond sparks off the water. There was a fresh breeze which made Elinor shiver a little in her warm pelisse.

She had come here to be married. The thought was still strange to her. She had been betrothed for such a long time – almost two years now – and she had not seen her fiancé since his hasty departure for Portugal only a month after the match was arranged. Elinor barely knew Major Welby, who was fifteen years her senior. He served in the 9th Dragoon Guards, which was her uncle’s old regiment, and the Colonel had arranged the match with very little reference to Elinor.

The ceremony was supposed to have taken place during the autumn of 1811 but the regiment was recalled to duty very suddenly and Elinor was faced with the daunting prospect of an immediate marriage. She had hoped for time to become accustomed to the idea and was immensely relieved when Major Welby wrote to inform her uncle that it would be impossible to delay his departure long enough to travel to Northamptonshire for the wedding and that, regrettably, the marriage must be postponed.

Life had gone on very much as before. There were times, living under Uncle Edward’s bullying rule, when Elinor longed to escape, even into marriage with a stranger. At other times she hoped that one of Major Welby’s infrequent letters would contain the news that he had thought better of the arranged marriage and wished to be released from his obligations. The more time that passed, the harder it was for Elinor to remember exactly what her fiancé even looked like.

She had been shocked during the previous winter when her Uncle informed her that Welby had written to suggest that Elinor might join him in Portugal to be married there. For a few weeks Elinor lived in a state of carefully concealed terror but a winter cold which had settled on Uncle Edward’s chest made travel impossible. Elinor breathed again and finally admitted to herself that her initial anxiety about the match had settled into cold dread. She did not wish to marry Major Welby and she needed to say so.

Uncle Edward was furious when she made the disclosure and as always, his anger took physical form. Elinor was locked in her room bruised and sore from six stripes from his riding whip, and Juliet joined her a day later after trying to speak up for her sister. The stripes healed and Juliet was released but Elinor remained there alone, forbidden to see or speak to either her aunt or her sister until she gave in. Whatever her doubts about marriage to a man she barely knew and did not particularly like, she realised that she could not continue to live under her uncle’s roof. Anything would be better than this and at least she would be able to offer a home to Juliet.

By the time travel arrangements were made, Uncle Edward was ill again. This time he refused to cancel.

“You don’t need me or your aunt to be there,” he wheezed when Elinor obeyed his summons to his bedside. “You need to be married before I’m dead. That way, he can arrange a suitable match for your sister as well. Can’t leave this to a pack of silly women. You’ll need a man to take care of you. Welby’s got a respectable fortune, he’ll see to it. At least he still wants you. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Sir, I don’t want this marriage,” Elinor said trying to keep her voice calm. “I don’t know him, it will be like marrying a stranger. And if you are ill, it should not be left to my aunt to manage. Let me write to him. He will easily find another lady. I…”

“Enough!” her uncle roared with surprising energy. “Get yourself out of here and get yourself packed. You’ll depart in that carriage when it arrives and you can take your sister along with the maid. Once you arrive in Spain he’s to meet you in Santander and the wedding will take place almost immediately. It’s settled, I want to hear no more of your whining.”

Elinor had complied because she could not think of anything else to do. She had no money and no other family that she could run to. She had often thought that it might be possible to find work as a governess or a companion but she had never found a way to apply for such a post. She could neither send nor receive letters without her uncle’s supervision and she had no friend who might help her do so. It occurred to her that in novels, the heroine always managed to find a way out of such difficulties. In real life, a respectable woman with a younger sister to take care of needed to set impractical schemes to one side and make the best of her situation. She had tried to find a way out and had failed. Her only other option was to go to her wedding as cheerfully as she could manage and to try not to think about what might happen next.

Now that she was here and ashore, Elinor was thankful for the calm presence of Mr Beattie. She was a little confused about his position aboard the merchant ship, but he seemed willing to act as their escort and determined not to leave Elinor until she was safely inside her hotel. She was passionately grateful to him, given that neither she or Juliet spoke a word of Spanish, while Eliza was so overwhelmed by the noise and bustle of a foreign sea port that she seemed to be struggling even to speak English. The quayside was crowded as several ships seemed to be either loading or unloading their goods. At least two of the ships at anchor in Santander Bay were Royal Navy and there was a collection of blue-coated officers going about their business on shore. There were also a large number of red coats in evidence. Elinor found that she was surreptitiously scanning faces for her betrothed and she felt a slight sense of panic in case she did not recognise him. It had been two years and all she could clearly remember was a bulky figure and a set of perfectly trimmed military whiskers. He had sent her a miniature during the first year of their engagement, but it was poorly executed and could have been anybody.

“I thought he was going to meet us,” Juliet said. She had been full of high spirits as they left the ship but had gone very quiet as Mr Beattie organised a hired cart and found a porter to load up their luggage. “Your…Major Welby. I thought he’d be here.”

“I’m sure he will meet us at the hotel. He may have been delayed by his military duties. Don’t worry, Juliet. It will be all right.”

She reached for her sister’s hand as the cart jolted forward. Juliet squeezed hard and gave a wan smile. Elinor returned it. She was not sure which of them was more terrified in this busy, noisy, alien place but she reflected that Juliet’s fear would be assuaged once Major Welby appeared to take charge. Elinor still had to get through her wedding night.

The hotel was reassuringly elegant, situated on a wide boulevard away from the noisy port district. Mr Beattie handed them down and ushered them into a tiled entrance where a portly Spanish gentleman came forward with an enquiring smile. Beattie appeared to speak fluent Spanish and Elinor stood back and watched him with awe. She did not think she would ever be able to speak that quickly in any language.

It was clear that the clerk was not happy with the hotelier’s response to his enquiries. The Spaniard spread his hands wide as if disclaiming any responsibility for the problem and Beattie rapped out a series of what sounded like questions. Eventually he turned to Elinor, who was beginning to feel very sick.

“Is there a problem, Mr Beattie?”

“A minor one, ma’am. I’ve asked this fool to order some refreshments and you can sit down while I sort this out. Let us go over to a table. Here, sit down. Your maid…I’m not sure…”

“Eliza, come and sit here,” Elinor said briskly. “This is not the time to worry about propriety. What has happened, sir? Is our room not reserved? And what of Major Welby?”

“I can discover nothing about the Major ma’am, but you can be sure I will do so. As to your accommodation, it probably was reserved, but the army has moved in and taken over this entire hotel. Transports arrived yesterday with a battalion of infantry along with two hundred cavalry reinforcements. They’ve billeted the men on a couple of local farms, poor souls and they’ve told Senor Talledo to cancel all reservations as they need the rooms for their officers for at least two weeks until they’re ready to march out to join Lord Wellington. The poor man is beside himself.”

“Can they do that?” Elinor asked, appalled.

“Oh yes, ma’am. They’ll have to recompense him of course, but given how the army manages its pay chest it could take him a year to get the money back and it won’t be the full amount. In the meantime, we’ll need to find accommodation for you.”

“But this is dreadful,” Juliet said. Elinor could hear the panic in her voice. She felt panicked as well but forced herself to speak calmly.

“Mr Beattie, this is so kind of you. I’m sorry you have been put to so much trouble. I’m sure when Major Welby arrives it can be straightened out. You must have a hundred things to do without having to trouble yourself with our difficulties.”

“Can’t be helped, ma’am. I’m just glad the Captain suggested that I escort you. A rare pickle you’d have been in without a word of Spanish between you. Don’t you worry. Look, here comes the maid with some tea for you. And it looks like some bread and cheese as well. You have something to eat. I’ve asked Senor Talledo to find the officer in charge here. It’s a problem through the whole district now. They’re being asked to find accommodation and provide supplies and transport since the army started using this place as its main transit port. The locals aren’t set up for it. They’re doing their best, but they were struggling when I was last here earlier this year and it’s got worse since then.”

The bread was hard and baked with olives and the butter was made without salt and rather tasteless, but Elinor was surprised at how much she liked the soft cheese. They drank strong tea with what she suspected was goat’s milk and ate some beautifully juicy grapes. The hotel lobby was spotlessly clean and if she had not been so worried, Elinor would have rather enjoyed their vantage point, watching the coming and going of officers in red coats. A number of them looked curiously at the three women. One or two stared rather more rudely and Elinor touched Juliet’s arm to remind her to look away. She felt very conspicuous and wished she knew what was going on.

After what seemed a long time, Mr Beattie reappeared. He was accompanied by an officer who was definitely not Major Welby. Elinor was both relieved and confused. Her only way out of this embarrassing situation would be the arrival of her betrothed, but she was dreading it. The situation had all the elements of a Drury Lane comedy but she was not finding it funny.

She rose as the two men approached. Beattie gave a little bow and threw a malicious glance at his companion.

“Miss Spencer, allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant-Colonel Galloway. As far as I can work out he’s the Assistant Quartermaster General for this district and is the man responsible for cancelling your rooms and leaving you to sleep on the streets tonight. He’s here to explain why that’s considered acceptable by His Majesty’s army.”

Galloway shot the clerk a look of utter loathing. “It’s very good to see the merchant service is employing clowns as administrators. That probably explains the chaos of the supply system here.”

“I thought everything was the fault of the Royal Navy according to your boys, sir. Still, it’s good to know you’re extending the blame to merchant shipping as well. You might want to throw in a bit of a complaint about Neptune and the mythical sea-serpent. I’m sure they’re both Bonapartists.”

Elinor was not sure, but she thought she heard Colonel Galloway grind his teeth. While she appreciated Beattie’s wit, she was not sure that he was the man who could get her a hotel room. With an effort, she summoned a smile and held out her hand.

“Colonel Galloway, thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

Galloway paused for a moment, looking uncertain. Then he took her hand and bowed over it.

“Miss Spencer. Forgive me, you have nothing to be sorry for. This must be very upsetting for you.”

Elinor studied him. He was probably around thirty or so with short dark brown hair and warm brown eyes, but he currently looked like a man driven to the limits of his patience. Elinor had been raised on stories of military glory but she had never thought for a moment about the men like Galloway who worked behind the scenes in difficult circumstances to make a campaign happen. Elinor was a woman accustomed to managing a household on a tight budget with difficult people and she felt unexpectedly sorry for him.

“Why don’t you sit down, Colonel Galloway and perhaps Mr Beattie could ask for some more tea? I’m afraid we are putting you to a great deal of trouble here.”

“Tea?” Galloway said hopefully. His eyes were suddenly riveted to the cups and plates on the table. Elinor looked at Beattie and saw that he was masking a grin. She wondered how often Colonel Galloway forgot to eat.

“And some more bread and cheese if you can manage it, Mr Beattie. I suspect Colonel Galloway missed breakfast. Sit down, Colonel and allow me to introduce you to my sister Juliet. Also our poor maid Eliza who has never been more confused in her life.”

Galloway bowed politely. “She has all my sympathy, ma’am,” he said.

***

Accommodation for the ladies was obtained by the simple expedient of bundling three junior officers into one room. They were cavalry officers which meant their complaints were loudly expressed, but Toby Galloway silenced them effectively by demanding to know which of them wished to explain to Major Welby when he returned that his fiancée had returned to England because no accommodation could be found for her.

With the two ladies established in a spacious room overlooking the square and the terrified maid wedged into a cubbyhole on the top floor which made her cry with relief, Galloway went in search of a senior cavalry officer who might have news of the missing Major Welby. On stating his errand he was shown into an untidy little parlour which was littered with paperwork and half-unpacked boxes, where a thin irritable captain of the 9th Dragoon Guards was glaring at the merchant shipping clerk. Galloway sympathised. Fifteen minutes of Mr Gareth Beattie’s sarcasm had made him want to shoot the man.

Captain Cahill saluted punctiliously. Galloway thought he looked relieved at the sight of a senior officer who might take Beattie off his hands.

“Colonel Galloway, come in. I’ve just been explaining to this gentleman that I am unable to give out information about our officers.”

Galloway eyed Beattie and decided that he might just qualify as a gentleman, though he suspected the honorific had been acquired along an interesting career path rather than having been his by birthright.

“Mr Beattie is trying to assist a lady, Captain. At least I think he is. He might just have been sent here to piss me off. Where can I find Major Welby?”

Captain Cahill did not actually clutch his head but he looked as though he wanted to do so. “Major Welby is not here, sir.”

“Clearly he isn’t, Captain, or I’d be able to see him. Where is he?”

“No, I mean he’s not in Santander. He has left.”

Galloway felt a cold sense of dread. He had been hoping to hand this problem over to the man who had caused it within the hour, but he could see that possibility slipping away from him.

“Where’s he gone?” Beattie asked. His tone was grim. Galloway looked at him with interest. He had been far too busy being irritated with the clerk to think much else about him but something in Beattie’s tone suggested that he was extremely unimpressed with Major Welby’s actions and was quite prepared to say so. This did not entirely fit with Beattie’s apparently humble position as captain’s clerk. Despite himself, Galloway was curious so he caught Cahill’s eye and nodded permission to answer.

“Several officers of the quartermaster’s department have ridden out towards Bilboa, sir. They’re trying to source supplies. We’re bringing as much as we can in from England, but…”

“Captain, I am an officer of the quartermaster’s department. I know the abysmal chaos that is military supplies in this place. These poor townspeople. I’ve only met the Mayor three times and I think he’s cried at two of the meetings. The town can’t possibly cope and it doesn’t help that some of your officers are already throwing their weight around demanding free provisions from whichever poor bastard they’re billeted on. And now I’ve got a young Englishwomen and her companions dumped in this town in search of a missing fiancé and you’re telling me the feckless bastard has gone off on escort duty?”

There was a long silence.

“Well, yes sir,” Cahill said apologetically. “I mean none of us knew she was coming. He didn’t say anything, sir.”

Galloway closed his eyes and counted very slowly to ten in his head. Eventually he opened them again and fixed Cahill with a glare.

“Who is his commanding officer, Captain?”

“That will be Colonel Fraser, sir,” Cahill said with palpable relief.

“Where will I find Colonel Fraser, Captain?”

“Well…he’s not here, sir.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Galloway bellowed. Cahill visibly jumped. Beside him, Galloway heard a strange spluttering sound which he was fairly sure was the clerk of a merchantman trying not to laugh out loud.

***

When he could manage to ask questions without swearing, Galloway obtained the address of Lieutenant-Colonel Stratton who was the most senior officer of the 9th Dragoon Guards actually currently in Santander. He left Cahill’s office with a list of duties running through his head. Dismally he thought of how much catching up he would need to do once the matter of the Englishwomen had been settled, but he could hardly abandon them. It was obvious after half an hour’s conversation that Elinor Spencer had never been out of England before, spoke no Spanish and could not be left to cope alone in a strange place.

“There’s something off about this,” a voice said in matter-of-fact tones. Galloway turned to find the clerk had caught up with him. Beattie was slightly shorter: sharp-featured with bright copper hair and intelligent blue-green eyes. Galloway was torn between curiosity at his remark and an overwhelming desire to tell the man to go back to his ship and mind his own business.

“Why do you care?” he asked finally, continuing his walk.

“Captain O’Halloran charged me with seeing the lady safely to her fiancé. I’ve been trying to do it.”

“Don’t you have duties at the ship? Supplies to unload, manifests to check? There must be something?”

“I’ve an assistant who’s perfectly capable. Anyway I’m curious, aren’t you?”

“No, just overworked.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Too long.”

“Seriously. You can’t have been here with Popham, he didn’t have the army did he? Though he managed to kick up enough of a dust with the Spanish and a few marines…”

Galloway stopped dead and turned to glare. “Beattie, who the hell are you? And don’t give me this nonsense about being the captain’s clerk aboard some merchant ship. You don’t sound like one, you don’t dress like one and you don’t look like one. Stop pissing me about, I don’t have time.”

Beattie held up his hands laughing. “Stop yelling at me. It’s not me you’re angry with and I’m trying to help. I’m acting clerk aboard the Lady Emma. She’s a merchantman under contract to the army. We sailed in with army supplies and a few passengers and we’ve a week or so to hang around to pick up a contingent of sick and wounded men going back to England.”

“Acting clerk? What’s your usual job?”

“Suspicious bastard. I am confidential secretary to a gentleman by the name of Van Daan. He owns the shipping company along with a lot of other business interests. Very big man in the City and married into the aristocracy. I started off as a ship’s boy at the age of ten and worked my way up through the company. I don’t go to sea much now, but Mr van Daan wanted me to assess the situation in Santander. If it’s to be the main supply port for Wellington’s army now, we’ll be in and out of here all the time.”

“I imagine there have been a fair few reports written on that subject,” Galloway said mildly. “I’ve read a few of them myself. Sir Home Popham tended to generate a lot of paperwork.”

“I read them too and could think of a practical use for some of them.”

Galloway could not repress a splutter of laughter. “To be fair, the man’s clever. But I know the Van Daans aren’t especially fond of Popham since he got involved with Paul van Daan’s court martial.”

Beattie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know him then? Old army friend?”

“Old school friend before he got himself kicked out, but we’ve stayed in touch. I have had the privilege of listening to Paul van Daan on the subject of Sir Home Riggs Popham. It tends to go on a bit.”

“When that man has an opinion, it often tends to go on a bit. Punctuated with the worst language I’ve heard since I was a boy on an East Indiaman.”

“That’s probably where he learned it.” Galloway surveyed the other man with a more tolerant eye. “All right, I’m willing to accept you’re trying to help here rather than trying to dodge your duties aboard ship. You can come with me to see Colonel Stratton.”

“Are you going to shout at him as well?”

“That depends on whether he can tell me where the hell Major Welby has gone off to and whether they can get him back quickly.”

“I’d no idea that the officers of his Majesty’s Army had the freedom to wander off whenever they felt like it. I thought there was a war on,” Beattie said. “Let alone importing young women by the dozen. It makes joining up a lot more appealing, I can tell you.”

Galloway tried not to grind his teeth. “If you’re coming with me, Mr Beattie, I’d recommend you save your sense of humour for the voyage home. I’ve had a really long week.”

Beattie gave him an irritatingly understanding smile. “Yes, Colonel. Lead the way.”

***

A comfortable room and a good dinner made both Elinor and her sister feel much better. The evening was pleasantly mild after a short shower of rain and Elinor suggested a walk through the main part of the town. They attracted a good deal of attention from the British officers who strolled along the wide avenues and lounged outside taverns in the pretty squares but most of it was respectful. Elinor found herself wondering if her fiancé would object to her wandering about without a male escort but she decided that given his failure to arrive to meet her as agreed, she did not really care.

Arriving back at the hotel she found Colonel Galloway and Mr Beattie awaiting them with news, although there was still no sign of Major Welby. Beattie, who seemed very resourceful for a humble ship’s clerk, had reserved a table in the courtyard garden at the back of the hotel and ceremoniously handed Elinor and Juliet onto a wooden bench and poured wine for them. Colonel Galloway made polite enquiries about their accommodation and their dinner. It was all very civilised and Elinor was torn between a desire to scream at the two men to get on with it and an illogical wish to prolong the pleasant sense of a social occasion. She was wholly unused to socialising and had never in her life sat on the terrace outside an elegant hotel. Exotic flowering shrubs perfumed the warm air and there were lanterns strung between the trees which gave the scene a fairy tale appearance. It was beautiful and Elinor could not believe how much she was enjoying both the setting and the attentions of two gentlemen.

Fairy tales were not real though and Elinor sipped the chilled white wine, took her courage in her hands and asked:

“Have you discovered why Major Welby was unable to come to meet us, Colonel?”

Galloway looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, yes, ma’am. At least, I can tell you where he’s gone although not why he…I’m sure he must have mistaken the date. Ships can’t give the exact time of their arrival after all…”

“Messages are sent ahead. He’d have known roughly when we were expected to dock,” Beattie said. Elinor shot him a grateful glance. She had the sense that Galloway was trying to protect her feelings but at this point she just wanted information.

“Mr Beattie?”

“He’s gone off on escort duty, ma’am. A party from the quartermaster’s department wanted to do a bit of a tour of the countryside, working out where they might be able to buy supplies. Major Welby was placed in charge of the escort.”

“I see. I suppose he could not help that.”

“He could have written you a letter,” Juliet said. “Or arranged for somebody else to meet you. I wouldn’t expect that man to be attentive, but there’s such a thing as basic good manners.”

“Juliet, please.”

Beattie looked amused. “You don’t approve of your sister’s fiancé, Miss Juliet?”

“No,” Juliet said bluntly and Elinor blushed.

“Juliet, this is not appropriate.”

Juliet turned angelic blue eyes onto her. “I have been listening all my life to people telling me what is appropriate, dear sister, and I am tired of it. These gentlemen have wasted an entire day chasing around looking for Major Welby. It is very good of them, but I think they have a right to know that I am hardly shocked at all. You were bullied into this betrothal by our uncle and then bullied again into this badly organised journey, without even our aunt to support you, just because my uncle fancied himself ill again. Which he always does when there is something he does not wish to do. And Major Welby knows all this and does not care one whit about you or your comfort or safety. I do not think we should have come and I do not think you should go through with this marriage. He will not be a good husband.”

Elinor could feel her face burning and she was close to tears. “Juliet, stop it at once. You are embarrassing me and making these gentlemen feel uncomfortable. I do not…”

“I don’t feel in the least bit uncomfortable,” Beattie said briskly. He was looking at Juliet. “Thank you, Miss Juliet, that was extremely brave of you. You’re a good sister.”

Colonel Galloway was studying Elinor. “Is all of that true?” he asked quietly.

Elinor rose. “No, of course not. At least…it is much exaggerated. Will you please excuse me, I’m tired and I wish…”

The tears had forced their way through. She put her hands to her hot cheeks, thankful that the lantern light would probably hide the state of her face and turned towards the door of the hotel. Halfway there she realised she could not possibly leave her younger sister unchaperoned with two strangers and stopped, trying hard to compose herself. A hand took her by the arm.

“Walk with me,” Galloway said quietly. “There’s a path down to the river from here. It’s well lit and public enough but there won’t be many people about tonight. Don’t worry about your sister, Beattie will take care of her. Come on.”

Elinor obeyed because she could not think of anything else to do. He placed her hand on his arm and guided her down a narrow path which led out onto a broad gravelled promenade which overlooked the river. Lights twinkled on the opposite bank and there were several boats with lanterns making flickering patterns on the dark surface of the water. Elinor could hear music and laughter. Further along the bank she could hear the whispered voices of a man and a woman, their arms wrapped about each other. She wondered with immense sadness how it might feel to walk by the riverside with a man she loved and who loved her.

There was a small wooden jetty with lanterns hung on long poles to guide the boats back in. Galloway paused beside it and turned to look at her. Elinor looked down at the ground.

“Forgive me, I can see how upset you are,” the Colonel said gently. “Your sister was tactless, but Beattie is right. She clearly cares about you. How much truth was there in all of that?”

“I’m ashamed to tell you.”

“Why, for God’s sake? If that tale was true, there’s no fault to you in any of it. And it had already occurred to me that you should never have travelled all that way without a male relative to support you. I cannot believe your uncle allowed it and your fiancé acquiesced to it. Anything might have happened.”

Elinor looked up, slightly warmed by the indignation in his voice. “Well yes, I suppose so. Although as a matter of fact, these terrible things that they warn us about seldom do happen, you know. I am aware that your impression of me so far must be very poor, Colonel. I was rather bewildered on my arrival. But generally I am perfectly sensible and more than competent. I haven’t travelled abroad before, it’s true, and I don’t speak any Spanish but my French is quite good and I’ve taken care of my aunt and uncle’s household for years. I think that was why Major Welby allowed my uncle to make this match for him. He told me he wanted a sensible woman to look after his house and give him children and not enact him a Cheltenham tragedy because he was seldom there.”

“Was that his proposal?” Galloway asked. Elinor peered at him suspiciously. It was difficult to tell in the dim light but it almost sounded as if he was laughing at her.

“He said he wanted to be honest with me.”

“I can almost hear him saying it. That man has neither charm nor wit.”

“You know him?”

Galloway gave a faint smile. “Yes. I knew him at Eton though he was a few years older than me. And since we both ended up in the army we’ve run into each other occasionally over the years. I’ve not seen him for a long time though. I will be honest with you, ma’am. I don’t like him. All the same, I wouldn’t allow that to colour my opinion of this marriage. If you showed the least desire to see the man I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that after the first shock, you weren’t upset that he wasn’t here. In fact, you seemed rather relieved.”

Elinor turned away to hide her tears. “You cannot possibly know that, sir. You know nothing about me.”

“I know that you’re a brave young woman trying to make the best of an appalling situation,” Galloway said. He took Elinor’s hand and placed a neatly folded handkerchief in it. Elinor, who had only just realised she had left hers in her reticule on the table, took it gratefully and mopped her streaming eyes.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Elinor thought how peaceful it was, with just the faint sounds of merriment coming from the hotel terrace and from the boats on the river. She stirred reluctantly.

“I must go back. I shouldn’t have left Juliet.”

“I wouldn’t worry about her, ma’am. Beattie will take care of her.”

Elinor lifted her eyes to his face. “Does nobody out here have a sense of propriety? She’s nineteen and he’s…I’m not actually sure what he is, but he’s a man she doesn’t know and…”

“He’s thirty two, unmarried and works for an extremely wealthy London businessman as his confidential secretary. He’s out here on business for his employer and given that I know the family, I’d be astonished if they’d employ a man they weren’t very sure of. More to the point, he’s so angry about what’s happened here that if left to himself I think he’d take you both back to the ship and back to England on the next tide, leaving your fiancé to go to the devil. My apologies for my language.”

Elinor could not help smiling. “You seem to have done a very thorough job of investigating him, Colonel.”

“It wasn’t hard, ma’am; the man likes to talk and I checked his story with the Captain. I’ve complete faith in his good intentions. And if you want to go, I’ll happily convey the news to your fiancé when he takes the trouble to reappear.”

“It may be that he genuinely had no choice but to leave, Colonel.”

“Oh I accept that he had to do his duty. But as your sister said, he could have left a letter for you. And made perfectly sure that I’d not requisitioned your rooms. He must know how chaotic it is here at the moment. And also…”

Elinor studied him. Galloway had a nice face, not exactly handsome, but reassuringly kind. His eyes were his best feature, a mellow brown. Despite his harassed expression since he had first laid eyes on her, she thought it was a face used to smiling a lot. She wondered if he was married.

“Also?”

He hesitated and Elinor touched his arm. “Colonel, if you have anything to say I’d rather you said it to me in private. You’ve seen what Juliet is like. Until I know exactly where I stand I would rather not give her any more ammunition.”

Galloway laughed unexpectedly. “Yes, she does seem to have a tendency to go off like Congreve’s rocket when she’s annoyed. I’m glad she did though. You might not have spoken to me properly if she hadn’t blurted it out and I needed to know. Very well. It bothers me a little that neither of the officers I’ve spoken to about him seemed to know anything about a betrothal, let alone a prospective wedding. He probably was called away suddenly. And a letter could have gone astray. The postal service isn’t reliable here yet; I lose at least two letters a week. But I don’t understand why they didn’t all know you were coming. A man about to take a wife usually mentions it to his friends. And he’d have to make arrangements. I don’t even know if there is an English chaplain in Santander at the moment. There are usually one or two with Wellington’s army, but he’s about a hundred and fifty miles away and although you wouldn’t think it standing here listening to guitar music, there is a war on. Unless…I didn’t think to ask but you’re not Roman Catholic, are you?”

“Heavens no. My uncle is a stalwart of the most English kind of Anglicanism. I think he would die of shock if I married in a Catholic church. I’m not even sure if it’s possible.” Elinor studied him for a long time. “Colonel…are you saying that you believe Major Welby might have changed his mind? Or might not have ever intended to marry me?”

Galloway said nothing. He looked away from her, his eyes on the lights flickering across the water. It was growing colder with a sharp breeze picking up. Elinor was suddenly chilled and a little frightened.

“You haven’t answered me.”

“You don’t need to worry about it, ma’am. You’re not alone here, there are two of us looking out for you and between…”

“That is not good enough!” Elinor snapped. “I asked what you think. Treat me like an adult.”

Galloway visibly jumped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I should tell you. It’s only a suspicion and you’re a young girl a long way from home. I don’t want to say something that…”

“What do you suspect, Colonel?”

The crisp tone of her voice seemed to reach him. He studied her face for a moment from worried brown eyes, then said abruptly:

“Ma’am, Cecil Welby doesn’t have the best reputation with women. There was a scandal a few years ago in Ireland and then when he first came out to Portugal there was a Portuguese lady. Very high born. Her family were furious and threatened to murder him. It’s the reason he was sent back to England; his father got him a post at Horse Guards until it all blew over. I didn’t even know he was back with the regiment until now.”

“How do you know all this?” Elinor whispered. She felt suddenly very sick and a little light-headed.

“Army gossip is ruthless and I’ve been out here from the start. I was with the guards for a while and fought at Rolica and Vimeiro. I came back out with Wellesley but I was badly wounded at Talavera. It took me a long time to recover. I took an administrative posting in the meantime and it turned out I was very good at it and quite enjoyed it. So I stayed. I also got promoted a lot faster. But I have a lot of friends in other regiments and they all share gossip about Welby because I knew him as a boy at school. He was universally disliked there as well. I’m sorry. I could be wrong about this. For all I know his intentions might be completely honourable.”

“But this is insane,” Elinor said. Her face was burning and she put her hands on her cheeks to try to cool them down. “My uncle is a retired colonel. My cousin is an officer in the Light Division although I’ve not heard from him for several years. I’m not some unprotected girl who…”

“Do you have the money to pay for a passage home, ma’am?”

Elinor did not speak immediately. “No,” she said finally. “I have very little money. It’s why I…Major Welby agreed to take me without a dowry. He also said Juliet could come to live with us. Of course I thought we would not marry until the end of the war.”

“Was it his idea or your uncle’s to bring the wedding forward and for you to travel out here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Welby know your uncle and aunt couldn’t accompany you?”

“I think so. I’m not sure.”

“Did he know your sister would be with you or did he think you’d be alone with your maid?”

“I don’t know.” Elinor’s voice was a whisper. “He can’t have intended…his reputation would have been ruined.”

“Not as quickly as yours would,” Galloway said bluntly. “I’ve no idea why that bastard agreed to marry you in the first place, ma’am. We all thought he’d be after an heiress or at least a fashionable marriage to add a bit of a shine to his very tarnished character. It’s been well discussed in army circles. I don’t know what he intended. I’ll admit I tend to think the worst of Cecil Welby. For all I know there might be a letter winging its way back to Northamptonshire telling you that the wedding is off and to stay right there. He might have no idea you hadn’t received it. But I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because he hadn’t cancelled your room at the hotel. I did that when I requisitioned it for the officers. I checked.”

Elinor closed her eyes. Unexpectedly his voice sounded a long way off. “I’m sorry,” she said and was surprised at the spinning blackness in her head.

“Oh bloody hell,” Galloway said and she felt his arms go about her. “It’s all right, I’ve got you. Take a few deep breaths. I’m so sorry, I’m an imbecile to blurt all that out without warning. Just breathe. I’d rather not have to carry you dramatically across the terrace unless I have to.”

Elinor obeyed and was relieved when after a few minutes the dizziness passed. She realised that he was still holding her and that her head was resting against his chest. It felt wonderfully comforting and she moved reluctantly.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I’m not usually that missish. Please don’t say anything to Juliet about this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I might be wrong. But forgive me, I am going to talk to Beattie. I want to make very sure that ship doesn’t sail without you if it turns out you need to go home.”

“Home,” Elinor said. The word sounded hollow. “If I go home unmarried, Colonel, I don’t know if my uncle would take me back.”

“Isn’t that an interesting thought, ma’am? I wonder if Major Welby realises that.”

Elinor stared at him for a long time. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

“You’re coming back to the terrace and you’re going to drink a glass of wine to put some colour back into your cheeks. You look like a ghost. A remarkably pretty ghost, but definitely spectral. After that you’re going to bed, you need to rest. Tell your sister as much or as little as you like. Don’t make any attempt to find out about Welby. If anybody asks, tell them your cousin’s name and make something up about visiting him. You’re a clever girl, you’ll come up with something.”

Elinor took his proffered arm. “I can’t even pay my shot,” she said.

“Well at present the army can take care of it. Officially, your room is being occupied by Lieutenants Swann and Betteridge. I kicked them out to make space for you. If we run into trouble later on, I’ll pay your bill myself.”

“I couldn’t allow that.”

“I can’t see how you can stop me. Stop worrying. You’re not alone and you’re not going to be.”

Elinor looked up at him. “I’m never going to be able to repay you for what you’re doing for us, Colonel. And I’m not talking about money.”

He smiled. “I’m just glad I was here.”

“What if…what if Major Welby turns up at the hotel? What should I say to him?”

“He’s unlikely to do so, ma’am. I’m going to speak to his senior officer. He’ll have to report in on his return. My intention is that unless you want to, you’ll never have to speak to him again.”

They were approaching the terrace. Elinor thought about his words and recognised the enormous sense of relief that had nothing to do with Galloway’s startling revelations of this evening.

“I must have been mad,” she said softly. “Even to consider this, when I disliked him so much. I should have remained locked in my room. After all, my uncle would have had to let me out eventually.”

Galloway stopped and looked at her. Then he continued walking. “I’d like to meet your uncle one day, ma’am,” he said. “Now that’s enough for tonight. I want to hear nothing apart from social chit chat, is that clear?”

“Yes, Colonel. Good gracious. Is that Mr Beattie playing chess with my sister?”

Galloway stared. “Yes. How odd. I wonder where he got the board.”

“I wonder who’s winning,” Elinor said. “She’s very good at chess.”

The Colonel chuckled. “Is she? Let’s join them then; I’ve a feeling Beattie doesn’t like to lose. I might enjoy this.”

***

After a restless night considering what to do, Galloway decided to be frank with Beattie. He had made enquiries from Captain O’Halloran on the previous day and had confirmed Beattie’s credentials. Galloway asked the Captain how long he would remain in port and whether he could find space for the ladies on the return if it became necessary and the Irishman shrugged.

“That’s up to Beattie, Colonel. I might captain this ship but Beattie has the trust of the man who owns it. If he says we wait, we wait.”

Reassured, Galloway spent the morning catching up on paperwork, then attended a painfully difficult meeting with members of the Council of Santander who had a list of questions about requisitioning which he could not really answer. After that he took himself off to the inn where Beattie had managed to find a room. It was a simple establishment, reminding Galloway of the little roadside posadas he had stayed in throughout Spain, but it looked surprisingly clean. He found Beattie writing letters in the single bar room, a tankard of ale beside him.

“Have you had dinner?” Beattie asked. “I was going to order something here. I think the choice is mutton stew or mutton stew.”

Galloway grinned. “I’ve bespoken dinner at the hotel with Miss Spencer and Miss Juliet. I was hoping you’d join us.”

“Willingly. I’ve demanded a return match. I’ve never been that humiliated by a slip of a girl in my life. Apparently her cousin is an army man and taught her to play chess. I wonder if his military strategy is as good?”

“I want to talk to you before we walk over there. I had a long conversation with Miss Spencer last night and I’ve had several conversations with Welby’s fellow officers. I’m not happy about the story of this betrothal.”

Beattie put down his pen and neatly capped the ink pot. He shuffled his papers together into a neat stack. Galloway thought it was the first time he had seen Beattie look even remotely like a clerk. He fixed his gaze onto Galloway with ominous concentration.

“Tell me. And don’t leave anything out. I told you yesterday I could smell something off about this and I always trust my nose.”

“I can’t prove any of it but I can tell you what I think.”

“Thoughts will do for now. Carry on.”

Galloway told his story. He had a strong suspicion that a good deal of it was not new to Beattie who had clearly made good use of his time alone with the younger Miss Spencer. He did not react at all when Galloway spoke of how Elinor had been bullied into accepting Welby’s proposal and then into making the journey to Spain unescorted.

“That’s the most unlikely thing about all of this,” he said when he had finished the story. “Why in God’s name did her aunt and uncle let those girls travel out here alone? No guardian who gave a damn would do that.”

“That’s not what’s puzzling me,” Beattie said. “The old man was desperate to get her married off. Clearly he didn’t care how. What I don’t understand is why Welby offered for her in the first place. If he’s all that you say he is…”

“I think I’ve solved that. I spent a tedious hour in the 9th Dragoon Guards’ mess room earlier. Thank God my father would never let me join the cavalry. He could have afforded it, he just said he was fond of me and didn’t want to lose me to sheer stupidity. I begin to understand now.”

“Stop talking nonsense and get on with it.”

“None of the young idiots know anything about Miss Spencer but they were happy to discuss Welby’s exploits with the ladies over a bottle or two. It seems that at the time of his engagement, Welby was in trouble over a young woman he’d taken up with in London. Her family were making noises about breach of promise and Welby paid them off with a hefty bribe and took himself off to the country. The timing is right. I think he provided himself with a respectable fiancée to dissuade them from taking it any further. No point in pushing a man to marry your daughter if he’s already wed.”

“But he didn’t marry her. Why didn’t he end the engagement?”

“God knows. Perhaps he just couldn’t be bothered. Perhaps her uncle threatened to spread the word that he’d jilted his niece. It’s not the done thing after all and Welby’s reputation didn’t need more of a battering.”

“I wasn’t raised in quite the same social circles as you, Colonel, but I’ll take your word for it. So why did he send for her?”

“I don’t think he did. I think the uncle was beginning to smell a rat with the engagement that never ended. Or perhaps Miss Spencer gathered her courage and told him she wanted none of the Honourable Cecil. Whatever the reason, he pushes Welby into naming the day. Welby responds by saying she’ll have to come out here. He probably thought that would stop it dead, but he reckoned without that old bastard Manson. Welby was probably on the verge of writing to tell him it was all off and be damned to the scandal. Now that he’s back with the army, he could just wait for it to die down, which it would eventually. At that point, he receives the interesting news that Colonel Manson isn’t well enough to travel and his wife is staying to take care of him. All of a sudden, the arrival of Miss Spencer, accompanied by a maid and with nobody to see to her interests takes on a whole new look to Welby.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“I think he bloody would. What’s to stop him? Maybe she’d have worked out that he didn’t have marriage in mind fast enough to appeal to his senior officers. Maybe they’d have listened and helped her. Or maybe he’d have persuaded her into a carriage to visit an imaginary parson, dumped the maid at the first stop and found a nice isolated farmhouse. Whatever happened next is almost irrelevant. She’d be ruined and very publicly, in the middle of an army camp. She would need a protector. And Welby would be willing to volunteer until he got bored with her. After that, God knows what would have happened to her. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard a version of that story before, Beattie. It happens in London all the time.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

“I know him. He was a little shit at school. Most of them grow out of it. He never did. I’ve been hearing stories about Cecil Welby for years and all I ever wonder is why anybody is surprised.”

Beattie was silent for a long time. “What about Miss Juliet?” he said finally.

“She was a complication he didn’t expect. I checked the hotel records and he’d arranged a room for Miss Spencer and her maid. He knew Manson and his wife weren’t coming but he didn’t know they’d sent her sister as her companion instead. That might have stopped him, I don’t know. Or she might have been dumped at the first stop with the maid and God knows what would have happened to her then.”

“With my experience of one evening’s acquaintance with Miss Juliet Spencer, Galloway, I don’t think he’d have got either of them into that carriage if she’d been there. I think she’d have screamed the place down. That girl has literally no notion of how a delicate young lady should conduct herself. Or if she does, she doesn’t care.”

“How do you know?” Galloway said, appalled. His companion leaned back, laughing.

“Instinct,” he said. “Don’t look so furious, I’ve no intention of making a push to find out if I’m right. Though I am going to play chess with her again after dinner, so if you wish to take the delectable Miss Spencer for a riverside stroll again, don’t let me stop you.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“About Welby? Oh God, yes. Not that we’ll ever be able to prove a damned thing, but you’re not an idiot. If you say he’s a tick and an excrescence, I’m taking your word for it. How long do you think he’ll be away?”

“At least a week, possibly more according to Stratton. I don’t want him near those girls when he gets back, but I’m not worried about that. The minute he knows that I know, he’ll bluster himself purple in the face and then he’ll run a mile. He might have money and be heir to a minor title, but I can cap that very easily in terms of the army. I have very influential friends.”

“Do you? You don’t look as though you do, I must say. Who are they?”

Galloway laughed. “The same ones you do, Beattie. It’s just that in the context of this army, I’m better placed to use them. Right, let’s take the ladies to dinner. A shocking thing to do in a public dining room but nobody who matters is going to know and they can chaperone each other.”

Beattie got up. “Let me take these upstairs and change quickly and I’ll be with you. Are they going to be all right staying there?”

“Yes. I’m staying there myself, I can keep an eye on them.”

“If it’s a matter of money, my employer is generous with my expenses.”

“I’ll just bet he is. I’d love to know what you really do for him.”

“A surprising amount of it genuinely involves managing his diary and his correspondence. But you’re right, there are other duties occasionally. You know the Van Daans, Galloway. None of them would hesitate to step in and help these girls if they were here.”

“Thank God Paul isn’t here. He’s been looking for an opportunity to kick Welby into a dung heap for eighteen years. They’re fine at the hotel, but I’m hoping you can hold that ship for a while. I want to make very sure my letter to their bloody uncle reaches him before they get home.”

Beattie’s face lit up with laughter. “You’re going to write to Colonel Manson?”

“Yes. I’m going to make sure he knows what might have happened and I’m going to assure him that his nieces are no longer without friends to take an interest in their welfare. And then I’m going to list them, starting with my mother. I’d like to see her face if she heard he’d been locking those girls in a room and hitting them with a riding crop. She’d tear his head off.”

“Your mother?”

Galloway heard faint amusement behind the question and felt himself flush a little. “I wrote to her today,” he said defensively. “Told her about the girls and what’s happened. I’m going to make enquiries about this cousin of theirs as well. I’m not allowing them to go back to their blasted uncle without somebody they can turn to if he starts bullying them. I want them to know they’re not alone any more.”

Beattie picked up his tankard and drained it then set it down with unnecessary force. “Oh they won’t be, I promise you. Your mother sounds like a woman I would love to meet. Get yourself a drink, I won’t be long.”

***

Elinor spent the first few days in Santander constantly looking over her shoulder. Colonel Galloway’s speculation about Major Welby’s motives had shocked her to the core and once she had time to think about it, she was genuinely frightened. She lay awake at night listening to Juliet’s peaceful breathing, trying to imagine ways that she could have avoided walking into the trap, but she had a suspicion that she would have acceded to whatever Welby had suggested with regard to her wedding. She was appalled at her own naivety and angry to realise that she had become so cowed by her uncle’s relentless bullying that she had almost forgotten how to say no and genuinely mean it.

During the daytime though, it was becoming difficult to be unhappy when she was being so well looked-after. The weather was fine with only the occasional shower or cloudy day and Juliet’s bubbling high spirits were infectious. Her sister behaved as though this whole disastrous expedition was nothing more than a glorious holiday away from the dull routine of life in their uncle’s house and after a few days, Elinor realised she was beginning to feel the same way. It was hard to hold on to her anxiety when there was so much to see and do and all of it was completely new.

They had very little money, but sightseeing cost nothing. Beattie had found them a roughly drawn plan of the town and they explored the winding streets and visited the cathedral with its glorious nave and peaceful cloisters. For two happy weeks they wandered in and out of churches and even visited a convent with Galloway to listen to the most beautiful choir music Elinor had ever heard. They rummaged through small dark shops where she could not resist spending a little of their precious supply of money on a lace fan for each of them. It was the prettiest thing she had ever owned and she would treasure it as a souvenir of this unexpected adventure.

By the end of two weeks, Elinor’s fears had settled. She had stopped expecting to be challenged about payment of their bill and no longer imagined running into Welby around every corner. They dined each day at the hotel, usually with both gentlemen although occasionally Galloway’s duties called him to dine in the mess. On one occasion Captain O’Halloran invited them to dine aboard the Lady Emma. Elinor dreaded his enquiries about her missing fiancé but she quickly realised that Gareth Beattie must have given him some explanation because he asked no awkward questions. Colonel Galloway was also a guest.

After dinner they took wine up onto the deck and stood watching some of the men dancing hornpipes by the golden light of the ship’s lanterns. Juliet was laughing, teasing Mr Beattie to attempt the dance.

“You must have danced it at one time, Mr Beattie. You told me you were at sea when you were a boy.”

“If I did, I don’t remember it, Miss Juliet. I remember a lot of sea-sickness, some terrible food and a few whacks with the cane from the bosun’s mates. Not so much dancing.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. What if I agreed to dance it with you?”

Beattie was looking at her, shaking his head and laughing. “Oh no, you’re not catching me out like that.”

Juliet studied him for a moment then held out her hand. “Please?” she asked.

Elinor could feel herself stiffening. There was an unmistakable invitation in both Juliet’s tone and expression. She could sense Beattie struggling with his better self and then she saw his taut hesitation soften and he took her sister’s hand.

“Come on then. If we both slip over on this deck, I’m not taking the blame.”

“I rely upon you to hold me up,” Juliet teased and he laughed and drew her to stand alongside him. Around them, the crew roared their approval and O’Halloran began to clap along to the fiddler as Beattie demonstrated a simple step. He was surprisingly agile and light on his feet and Juliet watched in delight, then tried to copy the step. Her muslin skirts hampered her and she lifted them a little higher.

“It isn’t fair, you can’t dance this in skirts. Show me again.”

He did so and Juliet followed. Elinor could feel her heart beating faster. She knew that she should intervene. Her aunt and uncle would be appalled at the sight of their niece dancing before a crew of common seamen with a man she barely knew and whom Elinor suspected had not been born a gentleman, for all his good manners.

“Breathe,” Galloway said beside her. She looked up, realising that he had been watching her face rather than the dancing. Some of the men had joined in again and Juliet was moving among them, her face alight with happiness. Elinor thought she had never seen her sister look so carefree and so beautiful.

“I should stop her, this isn’t right,” she whispered.

“If you’re looking at a young woman enjoying a dance and thinking there’s something wrong in it, Miss Spencer, then you’re not the girl I thought you were.”

Elinor looked up at him, unexpectedly upset. “I’m not that much of a prude, sir. I know she’s been too much controlled and confined. We both have. No wonder she’s…but if people could see her like this…”

“The people who matter would smile. As you can, if you let yourself. None of your family are here and nobody is going home to tattle to them. She looks like a happy child. Take my hand. I can’t engage to manage a hornpipe, I don’t have Beattie’s early training, but we can achieve something.”

Elinor looked up at him wide-eyed. “I’ve never had a dancing lesson in my life,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

“Then you’ll learn. Try this, it’s a country dance; a simple step but it will fit to this music. Watch my feet.”

She was lost in minutes, her body caught up in the music and the joy of movement. The music changed to a faster beat and then to something slower and more stately. Elinor had no idea what she was dancing but it did not seem to matter. She was laughing and he laughed with her, catching her hand and passing it over to Beattie, then spinning Juliet around instead.

Elinor was silent as the small boat slipped through the water back to the jetty. Juliet was talking to the two men, teasing them about their dancing, asking Galloway questions about balls he had attended as though she had known him all her life. Elinor listened. Her disapproval had vanished and in its place she felt a dreamy content, as though some kind of weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The swish of the oars was soothing and Elinor leaned over and trailed her fingers through the water. It was very cold. She wondered how it would feel to be immersed in it and wished she could experience it one day.

“You’re shivering. Here.”

Galloway’s red coat was warm and rough about her shoulders. Elinor looked around at him, smiling her thanks.

“Will you not be cold?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you for dancing with me, Miss Spencer. I enjoyed it very much.”

“So did I. I’m sorry I was such an idiot earlier. I think I’ve grown up with my uncle’s voice in my ear.”

“Ignore him. The man has nothing useful to say.”

She gave a little laugh. “You’ve not even met him.”

“I’ve been in the army since I was seventeen, Miss Spencer. I’ve met the likes of him more than once. The key is to recognise what you’re dealing with and don’t let it upset you.”

“I don’t think you’d get on with him.”

He gave her a smile which made her heart skip a beat. “Just now I’d like to kick him down a flight of stairs, ma’am, but I’d never do it. He’s an old man and your uncle. Which doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have something to say to him.”

“It’s probably just as well you’ll never meet.”

He did not reply but to her surprise he reached out, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You’re going to be all right, ma’am. I promise you. Just wait a little while longer.”

Elinor looked down at her hands. “I’m glad I don’t have a betrothal ring,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“If he’d given you a ring I’d have thrown it in the Bay of Santander by now. Here’s the quay. Wait until they’ve tied up and I’ll help you over, it’s a bit choppy.”

***

Galloway was changing for dinner when the note came for him. He read it twice then went to find Beattie, who was already waiting at what had become their usual table on the terrace.

“I’m going to be late tonight. Will you take the ladies in? I’ll join you later if I can.”

Beattie set down the book he had been reading. “What’s happened?”

“Welby is back. The party rode in about an hour ago.”

Beattie stood up. “Is he likely to make his way down here to visit his fiancée?”

Galloway smiled grimly at his tone. “No. Colonel Stratton is keeping him there until I’ve spoken to him. After that, I doubt he’ll want to come near her.”

Beattie’s reflected smile reminded Galloway of a particularly predatory wolf. “If he wants to, I’m happy to have a word myself.”

Galloway found Major Welby in an elegant room in one of the public buildings which the 9th Dragoon Guards had requisitioned as their battalion headquarters. There was a fire blazing in the grate which made Galloway blink in surprise as it was a warm afternoon. Colonel Stratton greeted him politely.

“Colonel Galloway, I have already spoken to Major Welby about this betrothal. He has admitted that he should not have invited the young woman out here without first speaking to me and asking my permission to marry. He has also confessed that he did so under pressure from her relations and that he has been having doubts about the connection for some time. It was a stupid and thoughtless thing to do, but no real harm has been done.”

Galloway did not speak. His eyes were on Welby’s face. There was the hint of a smirk on the good looking features which made Galloway think longingly about punching him.

“That’s very interesting,” he said politely. “As a matter of interest, what are Welby’s intentions now?”

“I have refused permission. The girl can’t stay out here, we’ve orders to join Lord Wellington as soon as possible. This is not the time for my officers to allow their personal lives to distract them; we are marching towards France. Under the circumstances, the Major is willing to pay for a passage home for her and I have suggested that he visits her to ask to be released from his obligation. No harm done.”

The smirk widened a little. Galloway fixed his eyes onto Welby. “There’s no need for any of that, Stratton. Miss Spencer has made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t choose to be in a room with this reeking pile of dog shit for five minutes, let alone marry him. Her accommodation and passage home are being managed by Mr Gareth Beattie, who was fortunately aboard the merchant ship she arrived on. He’s confidential secretary to Mr Franz van Daan who owns the shipping line and has the full approval of his employer to provide every assistance to Miss Spencer and her sister until they are safely home, including an escort.”

“Her sister?” Welby blurted out. Galloway was pleased to see that the smirk had slipped.

“Yes, didn’t you know? She is fully chaperoned by her sister and their personal maid. No need to worry at all that you’ve damaged her reputation, Welby. I know that must be keeping you awake at night. I understand you gave her no betrothal ring or any other kind of token and she has assured me that she has already burned every one of your letters.”

“I find your attitude offensive, Galloway.”

“That will be Lieutenant-Colonel Galloway to you, Welby. Remember to salute me on the way out. I know you sometimes forget.”

Colonel Stratton shifted uncomfortably. “Well, well, it’s clear that tempers are a little frayed here. And I do agree Galloway that he’s not behaved well. I’ve spoken to him in the strongest terms about his conduct. Were it not for the impending campaign I might even be inclined to take it further, but this is war after all and I need all my officers.”

“That’s all right, Stratton,” Galloway said cordially. He was still looking at Welby who looked fuming rather than smug now. “If you tried to put together a charge for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman with this one, we’d be in France before they’d finished listing the evidence. As long as he makes no attempt to contact that girl he can go and get his head blown off in a cavalry charge with my blessing. And he’s going to. He’s too stupid to stay alive.”

Welby made a curious snorting sound. “You’re insulting, sir! You’ll meet me for that.”

“Welby, don’t be an idiot,” Stratton said sharply. Galloway gave a broad smile.

“Is that a challenge, Welby?”

“That depends on whether or not you apologise.”

“Well I’m not going to, but I’m happy to pretend I didn’t hear you. Just remember it’s my choice of weapons and I’ll choose swords. I enjoyed fencing at school and when I was growing up I used to practice a lot when I visited the Van Daans at Southwinds. He was a good swordsman even then, Major-General van Daan. I learned a lot from him.”

There was a long painful pause and then Welby shrugged. “Duelling is illegal.”

“So it is and with very good reason. Excellent decision, Welby. Thank you for your help, Colonel Stratton. May I trust you to keep him busy and out of my way until you leave?”

“Of course, Colonel. I’m grateful for your discretion in this matter. Is she…will she be all right? Miss Spencer?”

“Yes, she’ll do very well, Colonel. Good afternoon.”

He had reached the door when Welby said:

“Are you still hiding behind him?”

Galloway turned and surveyed him. “No. But if I were you, I’d give some thought to the fact that he’s with Wellington commanding a brigade of the Light Division and that’s where you’re going next, Cecil. I might mention that I ran into you here, but I’ve no need to give him a lengthy report on your antics. I’m sure his father will do that once he’s heard from Gareth Beattie, who you’ll remember is his secretary. And I’ll see that salute. I’m your senior officer now. Try to bear that in mind.”

***

The wind was brisk on the quayside and Elinor was wrapped in her cloak as she stood watching the barge rowing in from the Lady Emma. It was struggling a little in the white capped waves but it still seemed to her to be coming too quickly. Beattie had arranged for the removal of their luggage earlier in the day and had assured them that he would make sure their accommodation was ready for them before returning to escort them aboard. Elinor glanced at her sister. Juliet’s eyes were on the boat where Beattie’s bright copper head was clearly visible even through the spray. She could not help smiling but she was also very envious. Juliet had all the time in the world. Elinor felt that her time was coming to an end.

“Miss Spencer, may I have a word with you in private before you board? Eliza can stay with your sister.”

Galloway led her to a little shack which looked as though it was used for some kind of shipping office, with a smooth oak desk and wooden shelving containing dozens of ledgers. There was only one chair and Galloway did not suggest she take it. He looked tired and a little out of sorts.

“I wanted to speak to you about the arrangements for your journey. There’s no need to worry about anything. Beattie will be with you the entire way; he’s organised all the transport and any necessary halts. Place yourself in his hands, he’ll take good care of you.”

“I know he will. I’ll always be so grateful to him. And to you, sir, for your care of us. Thank you. I wish I could…”

“I wish I was coming with you. These weeks have felt very leisurely in places and now it feels rushed. I thought I’d have time to speak to you properly, but time has got away from me at the last minute and now you’re going.”

Elinor gave a painful smile. “I wish I could tell you I would write to you, sir, but my uncle won’t even allow us to receive letters from my cousin. I’ve found out all about him though, thanks to Mr Beattie, and he is going to try to arrange for letters to reach us. I wonder if…should you wish to write?”

Galloway smiled for the first time. “I am not going to give that smart-mouthed clerk control of my personal correspondence. God knows what would happen. He came to see me last night after dinner and gave me a huge talking to about my inability to get to the point. I couldn’t decide if it was for my benefit or for his, since he’s hoping if you’re not residing with your uncle the entire time it will make it easier for him to visit.”

Elinor stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand. Not reside with my uncle?”

“You’ll have to go back there at first of course. Don’t worry about him though. I’ve written to him in terms that I think will ensure there will be no more beatings or confinement. But you’re not happy there, either of you. I was wondering if you might like to make an extended visit to some friends.”

“Friends?” Elinor said, even more confused. “What friends?”

“My mother would like to meet you. I’ve written to her and told her all about you. You’d love it there. They’re good sorts, my family, and the place is full of horses and dogs. Do you like dogs?”

“Yes,” Elinor said. She was beginning to realise that this conversation had nothing to do with travel arrangements and her heart lifted. The Colonel was beginning to describe his favourite spaniel cross-breed and Elinor recognised nervousness. She allowed him to go on for a while because she was enjoying the sound of his voice and the opportunity to study his pleasant face and kind brown eyes. It might be a long time before she saw him again and she wanted to commit them to memory.

She would have been happy for the conversation to continue but the door opened and Beattie’s copper head poked around it, damp with spray.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“Have you not done it yet?”

Galloway flushed slightly. “I was just telling Miss Spencer that…”

“Stop telling her things and try asking her something. The boat’s waiting and we can’t miss the tide. My employer has been remarkably patient about all this but he’ll be getting to the stage of pacing the room and remembering why he thought about dismissing me two years ago.”

“Why did he…?”

“Get on with it!” Beattie yelled and closed the door.

Elinor could feel laughter bubbling up, filling her with joy. Galloway looked down at her and seemed to catch both her happiness and her understanding. He reached out and took her hand.

“I always knew if I ever reached the moment of wanting to do this that I’d make an absolute mess of it.”

“You’re not, Tobias.”

“I am. But I don’t have time to tell you the history of every dog I ever owned. I’ll let my mother do that. She’s going to write to your uncle and I promise you he’ll make no objection to you going to stay with her. With Juliet as well, of course. And will you call me Toby? All my friends and family do.”

“Only if you will stop calling me Miss Spencer.”

“Elinor, I love you. Meeting you, despite the appalling circumstances, has been the best thing ever to happen to me. Will you marry me, sweetheart?”

“Of course I will, you silly man. Why on earth did you leave it so long? No wonder Gareth is shouting at you.”

He bent to kiss her. She could feel his quiver of laughter against her lips. “He told you to call him that, didn’t he?”

“Well he had to, because of course he wants Juliet to do so and it wouldn’t be proper. I mean it still isn’t proper, but so much has happened that I have decided to abandon my notions of propriety and just see what happens next.”

He kissed her again and there was a long and satisfying silence. It was broken as the door flew open again. Elinor jumped and turned. Galloway kept his arm firmly about her.

“Thank God for that. I thought I was going to have to do it for you. Thanks old man. This is going to make my situation so much easier.”

“That wasn’t my first consideration, Beattie. Get out of here.”

 “Of course. I’ll leave you to say goodbye, but I want a quick word with you before we board. Congratulations, ma’am. I’m glad that arsehole Welby didn’t put you off marrying into the army. You made a much better choice this time.”

He vanished and Elinor moved back into Galloway’s open arms.  He kissed her again. “I’ll write as often as possible. I’m going to try and get leave, although it won’t be possible immediately. But I’ve not been home since just after Talavera, I might be able to manage something. If not, I’m afraid you’re going to have another long engagement, my love.”

“Do not dare to compare the two,” Elinor scolded lightly. “I love you, Toby. Please keep safe.”

“I will. I’ve already written the letters to your uncle and to my mother. I’m glad you said yes or they’d have been wasted. I’ll send them off by the packet, they should get there well before you do. Goodbye, love. No, don’t cry or you’ll set me off. Come on, let’s get you into the boat. Then I can go back to my quarters and howl.”

***

Galloway watched his love being handed carefully into the boat then turned to Beattie who was waiting to speak to him. The other man was smiling.

“I’ll take care of her for you, I promise.”

“You’d better, if you want my support for your own future plans.”

“That’s going to take a bit longer. I’m not really in a position to marry just now and she’s not yet of age. But I was hoping I wasn’t wrong about your intentions towards Elinor. Partly because she’s a darling and will suit you very well and partly because it is going to ease our way considerably.”

“Have you actually spoken to Juliet?”

Beattie grinned. “I was going to,” he said. “She didn’t choose to wait, just in case I had an attack of nerves.”

“She’s a formidable young woman.”

“Yes, she is. I need to get going. But there’s something you should know. Welby’s departure with his regiment will be delayed. He’s had an accident. Stupid fool got drunk, celebrating his release from his unwanted engagement so I’m told. Went the wrong way down a dark alley in the port area of Santander and got himself beaten and robbed. Apparently they broke both his nose and his arm. He’ll have to convalesce for a couple of weeks before he can join his squadron.”

Galloway stared at him in complete silence. “Robbed?” he said finally.

Beattie grinned. “He hadn’t much on him. I had to make it look convincing. I gave it to Miss Spencer. Pin money for the journey home. She’d no idea where it came from, of course. I thought it was fitting.”

“And where was I when this sad accident occurred?”

“By a lucky coincidence it was the day you were invited to dine with the Mayor and the Council. About fifty people at that dinner, weren’t there?”

“I imagine that’s why nobody has questioned me about it.”

“I imagine so.”

Galloway could not decide how he felt about the admission and then realised it did not matter. Beattie would always make his own decisions and he suspected that some of those decisions would always be affected by where he began in life.

“Is that what your extra duties consist of, Beattie? When you’re not writing his letters and managing his diary?”

“No. Franz van Daan is well beyond needing any kind of hired muscle. I’m told he’s coming up for a knighthood. And I’m not that man, Galloway. Welby had it coming and you couldn’t do it, you’ve a career to think of. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Galloway felt himself smile. “Look after yourself. And them. I’ll write.”

“So will I. Come and wave to your girl, she’s trying not to cry.”

“So am I,” Galloway said. He made his way to the quay and watched as his friend jumped nimbly into the boat. Both girls waved until they were well out across the water. Galloway continued to do so until the boat was close to the merchantman and he could not make out the faces of the passengers. He could still see the movement of Elinor’s hand though and he thought she blew him a kiss. He blew one back just in case and remained there until the boat tied up and the passengers were aboard. Finally he wiped his eyes surreptitiously, squared his shoulders and turned back to the streets of Santander and an appointment with a furious grain merchant.

For those who haven’t read any of my previous stories, I suggest you start with Eton Mess which tells the story of Toby Galloway and Cecil Welby’s school days.

 

 

Here Comes 2023 at Writing with Labradors

Here comes 2023 at Writing with Labradors and a very Happy New Year to all my friends, family and readers.

I decided to look back at last year’s opening post to get some ideas about what I wanted to say about the past year and my plans for this one. I’m very glad I did, because it’s really put into perspective how different 2022 was from the previous year. In 2021 I’d really struggled with lockdowns and a variety of family problems and it affected my writing. My post was full of regrets about the things I didn’t manage to achieve along with hopes for the coming year.

Let’s see how that went.

I’d already effectively finished book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga at the end of 2021 and passed it on to my editor. Poor Heather had a somewhat fraught start to 2022 since she knew how desperate I was to get another book out after a year’s gap. She worked very hard despite some health problems of her own and the book was published in April. An Indomitable Brigade, set during the Vitoria campaign of 1813, was a big hit with fans of the series.

With one book under my belt, I went back to book 3 of the Manxman series. I’d started this in 2021 but for some reason I just couldn’t get on with it. I was happy with the storyline and had done loads of research but writing it was like wading through treacle. Eventually, because I had to write something to get myself out of my gloom, I abandoned it and wrote the Vitoria book instead.

I went back to This Bloody Shore with some trepidation in May and much to my surprise I discovered what was wrong with it on the first read through. I cut the first two chapters completely, starting the book at a different place and was pleased to find that most of the rest of what I’d written was completely fine. The writing raced along, I loved seeing more of Captain Bonnet and my two new Spanish characters were immensely satisfying to write.

 

Thanks once again to an end of year sprint by my fantastic editor, This Bloody Shore came out in December and sales and reviews proved it to be a winner. I received my first ever number one bestseller in new releases tag from Amazon. I was delighted, not just for myself but for Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell who have earned their place in the hearts of my readers alongside Paul van Daan. The surprise hit of the book, according to reader comments, was Faith Collingwood. The shy girl of book 2 seems to have blossomed in book 3 and my readers love it.

In addition to the two books, I wrote my usual three free short stories this year. Valentine’s Day took us back in time to the winter of 1808-09 and an Unassuming Gentleman, a traditional Regency romance for one of the officers of the 110th. Halloween took us even further back to Paul van Daan’s schooldays at Eton, finally solving the question of why he was expelled for throwing the Greek master into a fountain in Eton Mess. And my Christmas story, The Glassblower’s Daughter, was written during a recent holiday to Mallorca and featured two of the main characters from This Bloody Shore.

I also published the Recruit on St Patrick’s Day. Set during the days of the bloody rebellion of 1798, it tells the story of how one of the major characters of the Peninsular War Saga came into the army and is a taster for a full-length novel I’m planning.

With travel opening up again, I fulfilled a long-held wish and signed up for a Waterloo tour with Number One London Tours, led by Kristine Hughes and Gareth Glover. The tour began in London then moved to Waterloo, taking in all the museums and many of the monuments around the battlefield. Gareth’s knowledge of the battle is remarkable and he’s also a very good storyteller while Kristine’s expertise on the social aspects and personalities involved made the stories even more poignant. I loved every minute of the tour and came home with my brain teeming with ideas about how to write Waterloo when the time comes. For the first time I understand why so many writers get to this point and jump forward to the battle but I’m not going to. My characters need to get there the hard way, just as the men of Wellington’s army did during the war.

Other trips during the year were more about catching up with friends and family after such a long separation during lockdown. I still managed to slip in some historical visits though, with a trip to the Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth, Maritime Greenwich in London and the Military Museums in Winchester, where I acquired a Rifles bear to add to my desk army.

 

The Cathedral in Palma

I wasn’t expecting to find Napoleonic history in Mallorca in October, where I was only there to accompany my husband and a group of cycling friends. I was surprised to discover that in a direct follow-up to This Bloody Shore, the island was overwhelmed by refugees from the fall of Tarragona in 1811. Mallorca is beautiful, with some fascinating history and I wrote this year’s Christmas story sitting by the pool.

I was excited by the prospect of attending my first Napoleonic conference for several years in September. In fact, only the first day happened as planned, a tour of Apsley House. The death of the Queen meant that the National Army Museum was immediately closed and the poor organisers had to move the entire thing online with less than 24 hours notice. They did a remarkable job, and those of us already in London for the event watched the talks online during the day and then met up in a pub near the venue for the evening. Seeing old friends and making new ones was still a highlight despite the disappointment of the conference.

Another thing I’ve been able to tick off my list this year is that all the books are finally available in paperback and I have new covers for both of my Regency romances. My long-suffering editor, Heather Paisley of Dieudonne Editorial Services, is gradually working her way through my back-list to bring all the books up to her rigorous standard. She assures me this would go faster if I would just stop writing new books and short stories which need to take priority. I can’t thank her enough for the hard work she puts in on this. She’s promised to do a blog post with me this year, explaining more about the processing of editing. It should be a fun read and we’re hoping it will be helpful for new writers who might find the process of working with an editor somewhat daunting.

I’ve been a member of the Historical Writers’ Forum on Facebook for some years now and run their Twitter account. They organise regular Zoom panels and I was involved in one last year talking about writing battles. This year’s panel was particularly exciting as we had a special guest in the person of Mr Bernard Cornwell who joined us to talk about creating great characters along with M J Logue and Paula Lofting. It was great fun and the talk is available online for anybody who missed it.

I’m hoping for some more online adventures this year. I’ve also agreed to another short story for an anthology, but this one is right out of my period and my comfort zone, which is why I’ve agreed to do it. I like a challenge.

On a personal level, I’ve mostly recovered from the effects of the various lockdowns. I’ve made a start of book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga. It’s called An Unattainable Stronghold and follows the 110th into the Pyrenees and the storming of San Sebastian. After that, I’ll be going back to the Iris to join Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell along the coast of northern Spain where they are joining Sir Home Popham on his campaign to annoy the French and the Spanish equally. I’m very much looking forward to the biography of Popham currently being written by my good friend Dr Jacqueline Reiter. I’m hoping to make good use of it when it’s published.

The year had a sad ending when we heard that my uncle, William ‘Bill’ Bryant had died. Bill was a huge personality, very much part of my childhood and will be very much missed. He raised a family of history lovers and I laughed aloud during one of the eulogies about his passion for watching war films, despite the fact that he must have seen Zulu and the Battle of Britain a thousand times. The final piece of music played at his funeral was chosen by him, and we both laughed and cried as we left the service to the rousing sound of the Great Escape.

 

I’m looking forward to 2023. Last year was all about work and catching up on the time I’d missed. This year I feel confident again in my ability to write. I have also (finally) worked out how I intend to divide up the final books in the Peninsular War Saga. At least I think I have, though you know what I’m like for changing my mind. So for those of you who have been wondering…all titles are provisional by the way.

Book 8: An Unattainable Stronghold (San Sebastian, Vera and San Marcial, July – Sept 1813)

Book 9: An Inexorable Invasion (Bidasoa, Nivelle and Nive plus winter quarters 1813-14)

Book 10: An Improbable Abdication (Feb-April 1814 taking us through to the end of the war and possibly back home)

Book 11: An Insubstantial Peace: (Peacetime in England plus the Congress of Vienna. For those of you howling with laughter, I am not sending Paul to Vienna as a diplomat. Even I couldn’t write that. But somebody will be there with Wellington…)

Book 12: An Implacable Engagement: the Waterloo campaign. (Enough said really)

Book 13: An Amicable Occupation (the Army of Occupation)

And that will be it for the Peninsular War Saga. Some of the dates will probably change as I’m not sure where book 10 will end and book 11 begin. Still, at least I’ve got my head around the Pyrenees now.

As for Hugh and Durrell, I’ve got some interesting new ideas about these two that I’m still considering. Watch this space.

I hope all my readers have a fantastic 2023. Thank you all once again for your support during the past year and for your continuing enthusiasm for the books and for my characters. Please keep in touch. I love hearing from you all.

Happy New Year to all of you from Lynn, Oscar and Alfie at Writing with Labradors.

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