The Glassblower’s Daughter

The Cathedral in Palma

Welcome to the Glassblower’s Daughter, my Christmas story for 2022. As with all my short stories, it’s free and available to share as much as you like.

Just a minor warning with this story. Because it follows on directly from the events of my latest Manxman book, This Bloody Shore, my regular readers may want to finish the book before reading this. The story stands in its own right, but there will be one or two spoilers.

I wrote this story during a recent holiday to Mallorca. We stayed near the little town of Alcudia and my husband and our four friends spent the week cycling. I’m not a cyclist so I planned a few excursions then settled down to do some editing on This Bloody Shore while sitting outside the pool bar.

As far as I was aware, I wasn’t likely to find much Napoleonic history in Mallorca. The Royal Navy had a base on neighbouring Menorca and their presence in these waters kept the French away, so Mallorca was never invaded. However, I couldn’t resist doing a bit of digging around to see if they at least sent troops to the Spanish army.

The first thing I discovered was that Mallorca was indeed invaded in 1811, not by the French but by a small army of desperate refugees from the French storming of Tarragona. I was delighted to find such an immediate link to the end of my latest book and it gave me an opportunity to follow up on two characters from This Bloody Shore. 

I spent a lovely week in Mallorca. There was indeed a Mallorcan regiment which went on to fight at Vitoria. There’s a wonderful and historic glassmaking factory and I discovered the story of the Xueta, the descendants of a group of Jewish families persecuted by the inquisition who had still not had their rights restored at the time of this story. I’ve woven these elements into this tale. I hope you enjoy it.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my readers. It’s been a great year for me, with two books out and I feel as though I’m back on track again. I’m now researching book eight of the Peninsular War Saga. It’s called An Unattainable Stronghold and is set around the 1813 siege of San Sebastian.

The Glassblower’s Daughter

Mallorca, November 1811

It had rained all morning with typical Mallorcan ferocity. Drill and training were cancelled and the one hundred and fifty men of the 13th Mallorcan infantry currently on the island huddled within the leaky wooden farm building they were using as barracks: playing cards, smoking or watching the spectacular display of lightning over the mountains.

Captain Don Bruno Ángel Cortez was glad of the respite, although he would not have admitted it to his ill-assorted collection of non-commissioned officers and men. Since being appointed to the temporary command of two companies of new recruits, he had taken care never to allow them to see any kind of emotion in him other than anger. Ángel had been raised within the rigid structure of an aristocratic, although impoverished Spanish family and had been taught that emotion was a sign of weakness.

Ángel was sometimes envious of his junior officer who seemed to have no such qualms. Captain Don Óscar García, recently promoted after the bloody storming of Tarragona, was from the same social class as Ángel. He had even more reason to take pride in his lineage, as his father was a nobleman and a member of the Cortes of Cadiz, the council which governed Spain in the absence of the Royal family, who had fled the invading troops of Bonaparte. García might have had a comfortable and safe administrative posting in Cadiz but instead he had accepted a post as ADC to General Contreras during his command of Tarragona. Ángel, ten years his senior and a veteran of both Bonapartist and Spanish armies had initially been rather contemptuous of García’s youth and inexperience. The siege and its bloody aftermath had changed that. Óscar García was an intelligent and courageous soldier and the first real friend Ángel had ever had. He was trying hard to hide how much that meant to him.

Ángel was eating breakfast and staring out of the window at the rain when García joined him. News of his promotion had arrived with a consignment of supplies including new uniforms. Ángel liked the red facings of the Mallorcan regiment although he thought it suited García’s dark colouring better than his own fair hair. During their long convalescence recovering from wounds received at Tarragona, García had cut his curly hair short and it made him look older. He set his hat down on a side table, seated himself opposite Ángel  and reached for the coffee pot.

“It’s almost empty,” Ángel said.

García grinned. “Nothing else to do this morning, sir?”

“At least it’s not brandy. I’ll ring for some more.”

“No need, I’ll go…”

García was halfway to his feet when the door opened and a young woman entered the room with brisk steps. She bore a fresh jug of coffee in one hand and a basket of bread in the other. The jug was made from local pottery and looked heavy but the woman set it down on the table without effort. García remained on his feet, bowing to the woman. Ángel got up reluctantly to do the same. His junior tended to treat females with what Ángel considered exaggerated courtesy, regardless of their social position. He had even seen García helping the laundry maid when she was bowed down under a heavy load of wet sheets and towels.

The social status of Señorita Raquel Segura confused Ángel. She was the only daughter of his host who was a prosperous glassmaker. Señor Juan Segura was a master glassblower and the owner of a large factory on the edge of Palma which shipped luxury glassware all over the world, although trade these days was limited by the exigencies of war. He also ran a shop in the narrow streets of Palma and ten years ago had purchased a seventeenth century palace within the city walls.

The Casa Segura was the most comfortable billet Ángel had occupied in his fifteen years as a soldier. The entrance was modest, but the interior was a haven of cool rooms, sunny courtyards and terraces and polished wooden floors. Segura was a generous host and his wife, a stately woman of around fifty, treated the two officers as honoured guests. Ángel knew that his attitude to her daughter was churlish but there was something about Raquel Segura that made him deeply uncomfortable. For the first few weeks of their stay he had tried hard to convey without actually saying so how much he disapproved of her friendly manners and forthright speech. More than four months later he had given up because he did not think she had noticed.

García was holding out a chair. “Please, sit. You should not be waiting on us. Have some coffee.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Raquel sat down with a pleasant smile at Ángel. “Just for a short time, then. I have a busy day.”

García poured coffee into three pottery cups, laughing. “You always have a busy day, Señorita. You make me feel very idle, sitting here watching the rain fall. Captain Cortez is right though, we can do nothing with them in this weather. The field we use for training will be so muddy they will lose their shiny new shoes in it.”

“And you will spoil your shiny new boots, Captain.”

“That was my first consideration of course,” García said gravely. The girl laughed aloud.

“Considering the state of you both when you first arrived here, I think you deserve to be properly dressed again. I have never seen such a sight. Dressed in rags with the manners of a grandee. It was very funny.”

“Are you laughing at my vanity, Señorita?”

“Not at all. I was impressed with your dignity, Captain, given that you had lost your boots during the rescue and there were big holes in the toes of your stockings.”

“I will be honest, Señorita and tell you that I felt none of the embarrassment I should have. I was too ill.”

“You look a lot better now,” Raquel said. “Captain Cortez, have you any more news of your next posting? I know that you write five letters a week to anybody who might tell you when you can escape from us. Have you had a reply?”

Ángel flushed. “No news, only gossip, Señorita. The Mallorcan regiment is serving with the Spanish troops under Lord Wellington but I have received no orders to sail. I’m sorry that we continue to be such a charge upon you.”

“Oh do not be so silly, you are no charge at all. Two skinny officers in this big house with such a huge kitchen. You give our cook something to do.”

“Skinny?” García said indignantly and she laughed and surveyed him from well-shaped blue eyes.

“Well perhaps not as skinny as you were. I only ask because if you are likely to be with us at Christmas time we should inform our friends and neighbours as they will wish to include you in any invitations. Let us say that you will be here. Nobody will be offended if your plans must suddenly change.”

“We are not here to attend parties, Señorita,” Ángel  said harshly. He realised immediately that he had been rude and wondered why Raquel Segura had this effect on him. He then realised he had forgotten to apologise. His friend blushed slightly and gave him a look.

“What Captain Cortez was trying to say, Señorita, is that we cannot be certain of our plans yet, but are very grateful for you kindness and would love to be included in your Christmas arrangements if we are still here.”

Raquel Segura gave Ángel a long thoughtful look. Ángel looked back at her trying not to appear defiant. She was a tall graceful girl of twenty-two with delicious curves and a riot of dark honey-blonde curls which she wore in a loose knot on the top of her head. Ángel had always preferred slender delicate-looking women who did not trouble him too much with their opinions, but over the past weeks he had discovered that warmly tanned skin, a slightly aquiline nose and a laughing mouth could disturb his dreams much more effectively than any of the aristocratic beauties he had admired from a distance.

The girl rolled her eyes and returned her attention to García.

“You do understand, Captain, that was not what he was trying to say at all, don’t you?”

Ángel’s blush deepened but García began to laugh. “It was what he should have been trying to say, Señorita.”

“That at least is true. Well you shall be invited anyway, Captain Cortez, and if you choose to hold up your nose at our poor Mallorcan celebrations we will not miss you so very much. I must go. Some of the ladies of Palma have been making a collection of warm clothing and blankets for the refugees and I am helping to distribute them. Now that the weather is becoming worse, those without shelter are suffering dreadfully. I am going to talk to my father again about trying to find some abandoned buildings for them. Even half a roof is better than nothing in this weather.”

García stood up immediately. “May I escort you? Perhaps I can speak to some of the council members, I have got to know them a little. After all, if I were not in uniform I might have been on the streets myself.”

The girl smiled. She had a broad smile, with no hint of shyness. Ángel  had no idea how to make her do it and wished he did because it always made him feel happier. When she smiled at him it was generally because she was mocking his sour mood or cynical remarks. He wondered how it must feel to be on the receiving end of those smiles as often as García.

As he thought it, Raquel said:

“Captain García, you have been our guests for almost four months now. I would very much like it if you would call me by my name. I am exhausted with this formality.”

García’s face lit up. “I would…that is, would your father not mind?”

“Well I do not suggest that you start calling him Juan, but he will not care what you call me, I promise you. After all it is my name, so only I can choose who uses it.”

“It is such a pretty name. But if I am to do so, I would like you to call me Óscar.”

“Óscar. That is a very good name.”  Raquel turned her gaze to Ángel. “And you, Captain Cortez? Must we remain this formal?”

Ángel  flinched internally and bowed. “I am honoured, Señorita, but I cannot have you calling me by my first name in front of my men. It would be bad for discipline.”

Raquel gave him a long look and a weary sigh. “That is utterly ridiculous,” she said. “Very well, Captain. You may call me Raquel anyway and I shall continue to call you Captain, in the way of a young girl with a much older friend of her father. It will serve perfectly well.”

“Older?” Ángel said, forgetting his dignity. “I cannot be more than ten years your senior.”

“Really? It seems more. I cannot decide if it is your stuffy manners or your old-fashioned hairstyle. Come, Óscar, we should go.”

***

It was still strange to Raquel to see the refugees living on the streets of her city. Palma had always had its share of beggars but they were all familiar; in many cases their stories known to her. Her people, the Xuetes, made their own charitable collections separate from those of the church and Raquel had often accompanied her mother and aunt to distribute food, blankets and clothing to those without shelter during the wet winter months.

These beggars were different. More than a thousand men, women and children had fled to the island from the horrors of the French storming of Tarragona, most of them arriving in the British Royal Navy ships or in Spanish frigates. Some had planned their departure enough to bring baggage and money with them. These were the lucky ones, who filled every hotel, tavern and house to rent in Palma and the surrounding area. They were assimilated quickly into local society, bringing new life to the narrow cobbled streets of the city.

There had always been close trading links between Mallorca and Tarragona and some young men had even gone to fight at the siege, returning at its conclusion with stories of war and terror and, in one or two cases, with a Catalan bride. Raquel loved the changes wrought by the newcomers. Catalan food, Catalan manners and Catalan fashions began to appear amidst the staunchly conservative upper classes of Mallorcan society. Balls and dances were given and public dinners were held to welcome the newcomers and to celebrate their survival.

Raquel did not attend such events but the close-knit community of the Xuetes had their own way of welcoming the strangers. Many men of the middling classes had fought on the walls of Tarragona and had lost families and livelihoods when the French overran the town. They had been prosperous artisans and merchants and many had valuable skills; while others were willing to learn. Juan Segura had taken on three of them as apprentices in his glassworks and provided lodgings over one of the storage barns. Raquel knew others of her people who had done the same. The Catalans came without the historic prejudices of the Mallorcans against the Xuetes and were simply grateful for paid work and a place to sleep.

Too many refugees remained on the streets of the city and villages even five months later, surviving as best they could. They slept in the open along the sea front, begged for coins and took casual work where they could get it. These were the people who had lost everything and had no friends or connections who could help them find work or somewhere to live. Many were women with children, their men either dead in the siege or away with the army with no knowledge of what had happened to their families.

Their plight was bad enough during the hot summer months but as autumn brought cooler weather and regular heavy rain, they had nowhere to go. It distressed Raquel to see them sitting hopelessly under makeshift blanket shelters, shivering in ragged clothing. It was fever season and some died, their bodies quietly buried in unmarked graves.

The local Mallorcan authorities and churchmen held meetings to discuss relief and began to make plans for a soup kitchen to keep the refugees fed through the winter. Señora Segura rallied her own friends to donate and distribute whatever clothing they could spare.

“If we wait for those fools at the town hall, these poor people will all be dead by spring,” she told Raquel. “They need help now, not at Christmastide. And they need more than a few dry blankets which will be soaked and rotting within two weeks. They need places to stay. I am going to make some enquiries. There must be somewhere they can go.”

The boxes and bags of donations were being stored above the Segura glassware shop in the Carrer del Sol. Señora Segura had organised a small army of helpers to distribute the offerings and Raquel took her place in the storeroom making up bundles of essentials to be delivered. Óscar García remained beside her, taking instructions without comment and chatting easily to the women, girls and young boys as he handed out the bundles. Raquel shot him an occasional smile. She was enjoying having him working beside her and thought, not for the first time, what an easy companion García was.

Raquel had welcomed her family’s house guests with interest when they had arrived at the end of July. Both had been badly wounded during the siege and although they were beginning to recover, the journey had left García bedridden for two weeks before he was able to join the family at meals and take up some limited duties in barracks. Raquel enjoyed the presence of two attractive young men in the house, especially because neither was from the restricted society of the Xuetes nor from the wider society of Mallorca where she was forbidden to socialise and could not possibly marry. Raquel was not naïve enough to assume that the rest of Spain was free of either class or racial prejudice but it was obvious that neither García nor Cortez knew anything about the peculiar position of the Xuetes in Mallorca which made a pleasant change. She was sorry when, once both officers were up and about their duties again, her father felt obliged to explain to them.

The boxes of donations were almost empty and the volunteers had all left. Raquel rummaged through a basket and lifted out a knitted lacy shawl with a little sound of appreciation.

“This is very pretty, although I cannot believe it will be useful to keep anybody warm during the winter.”

García came to look. “It is for a baby, I think. The kind of thing my mother used to knit for the children of the estate workers. She spent hours on it. I can remember as a boy that I didn’t understand why she did not just buy them from the market and save herself the time, we had plenty of money. But she told me off when I suggested it. It seems that doing the work with her own hands was pleasing to God.”

Raquel laughed aloud. “I do not suppose that God – or the babies – cared at all. I loathe knitting. Or any kind of needlecraft other than embroidery. I like complicated designs with a lot of colour.”

“I know, I was admiring the tablecloth you are working on. I don’t know how you have the patience.”

Raquel shrugged. “I do not really. When I was growing up I loved to run over to the glassworks and watch the men. Sometimes they would allow me to help with the furnace when my father’s back was turned. I envied my brother so much because he was taught everything.”

“Your father told me that he was killed at Talavera.”

“At Medellin. He ran away when he was nineteen and joined the army as a common soldier. He had to do it that way because he could not apply to join the Mallorcan regiment as an officer.”

“Because he was a Xueta?”

“Yes. All form of public office is forbidden to us, including the army. Some of my people have been trying to fight back against it: they have petitioned the king. With the war, of course, nothing much has happened. Perhaps one day.”

Óscar García watched her as she repacked the few remaining items into a wooden box. Raquel was very conscious of his scrutiny. He had particularly fine eyes and an expressive face. For the first few weeks of their acquaintance, Raquel had thought Cortez the more handsome of the two, but she had decided that slate-grey-blue eyes, silver-blond hair and a chiselled profile were no substitute for laughter and warm admiration. She had developed something of a tendre for Óscar García and since his presence on the island was only temporary, she was making the most of his company.

“There. These things may remain until the Christmas collection. Then we may find somebody in need of them. By then I hope the Mayor and his friends will have managed to get their soup kitchen up and running. In any case, my mother has arranged to double the baking in our ovens each week for the Catalans and any food left over in our kitchen is to be distributed to them.”

“Your family is very good, Raquel. And your Xueta charity seems to work much better than the church here.”

“Oh some of the monks and nuns are doing a great deal. It is just that they cannot coordinate anything without two hundred meetings and personal leave from the Pope. It is infuriating.” Raquel realised that her tongue might have run away from her and shot him an anxious glance. García was a faithful churchgoer, unlike his friend and Raquel had begun to attend more often as an excuse to spend more time with him.

She was relieved when García laughed aloud. “They need you to take charge, it would work much better.”

Raquel preceded him down the stone stairs and looked into the shop. Her father’s shop manager was busy with a customer so she lifted her hand in greeting and turned to lock the wooden door to the store room. The rain had stopped though the slick cobbles were still very wet and slippery. It was an excellent excuse for García to offer his arm and Raquel took it with a sunny smile.

“I was wondering if you have time for a walk?” García asked. “There will be no training today and Captain Cortez will already have inspected the barracks six times and be on his third letter to Cadiz for orders, so I am not needed. We could walk down to the harbour.”

Raquel felt a little lift of happiness. “I should like to. There are always things to do, but I like to get some fresh air every day. My mother scolds me about my complexion and says I will never find a husband with a tanned face but I do not care. Someone will marry me. It is not as though the choice is so great.”

García did not answer and Raquel wished she had not said it. She found it difficult to hide her bitterness about the restrictions of her social position but she did not want it to spoil the little time she had with this charming young man from a different world.

They reached the harbour and García turned to look up at the impressive bulk of the cathedral and the Palace of La Almudaina on the clifftop above.

“So beautiful. I’ve seen many glorious churches during my travels but this has to be one of the most magnificent positions for a cathedral. Part way to God before they even started.”

“I wonder if they thought the same about the Royal Palace?” Raquel said. García grinned and took her arm again, beginning to stroll along the sea front.

“You’re very cynical for one so young, Raquel Segura.”

“I am sorry, is it annoying? I will try to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop. What I would like to do is ask you a great many impertinent questions that I couldn’t ask your father when he was good enough to explain a little about your people. But I will understand if you don’t wish to answer.”

Raquel stared straight ahead at the jumble of masts of the various fishing boats and pleasure craft moored in the harbour. Further out she could see the graceful lines of a Royal Navy frigate. A boat was rowing out towards it, probably with supplies or a visitor. Raquel was used to the comings and goings of the Royal Navy. Their main base was on the neighbouring island of Menorca but they called regularly for supplies or for the officers to take brief shore leave and they were frequent customers in the shop. Raquel knew that the security of her island home, which had never been touched by the brutal French invasion was due to the presence of the Royal Navy.

“I will answer,” she said. “It feels strange to talk of it to a stranger. Everybody here just knows.”

“A stranger?” García said, and something in his tone made her look round in surprise.

“Oh. Oh no, I did not mean that. I don’t think of you as a stranger at all. That is why sometimes I forget myself and say things I should not say.”

There was a broken section of sea wall, low enough to provide a seat. García steered her towards it and to her amusement, took off his coat for her to sit on. Raquel shook her head, removed her dark shawl and spread it for both of them.

“You will get sea water on your lovely new jacket, Óscar, and then I should feel guilty. This is old and the stains will not show.”

García grinned and put his jacket back on. “I have never met a girl who teased me quite as relentlessly as you, Raquel Segura.”

“Does it annoy you?”

“No, I like it. Sit down, gather your thoughts then tell me what it means to be Xueta on this beautiful island of yours.”

Raquel settled herself. She was shorter than he was and her feet did not quite reach the ground. After a long pause, she said:

“You already know a little. My ancestors were Jewish. You are Spanish, Óscar, you must know what that means. For centuries the persecutions came and went. For a time we would be left in peace, then all would change again and we were hounded from our homes or arrested. Some fled abroad. Many were tried and chose to reconcile with the church and become Catholic. Others were burned to death by the Inquisition. This happened all through Spain.”

“I know,” García said soberly. “It’s shameful. One of the only benefits of Joseph Bonaparte’s rule over my country has been the abolition of the Inquisition.”

Raquel shot him a little smile. “Not everybody agrees with you, especially on Mallorca. The people here are very traditional. Anyway, some of the Jews of Mallorca fled. Others gave in and became true members of the church. And some complied outwardly but kept up their traditions secretly. Those were my people.”

“I’ve heard of that happening in both Spain and Portugal,” García said. Raquel thought that he sounded genuinely interested. She had gleaned enough information about their guests to know that both the Spanish officers were from aristocratic families but while Cortez’ long dead parents had lost both money and property many years ago, Óscar García’s father was a member of the government in Cadiz and connected by blood or marriage to many of the ruling families. Judaism had been publicly illegal and privately despised for centuries by his people and Raquel was surprised that he showed no shock whatsoever.

“Here in Mallorca they have their own traditions,” she said and this time did not attempt to hide her bitterness. “There is a book, published more than a hundred years ago during some of these trials. They call it Faith Triumphant and it details the trials and the verdicts and lists so many reasons why my people should not be allowed to take part in public life or even associate with decent Christians. Even now, they publish it again every few years, just in case it should be forgotten. There is also a public display in the St Domingo Monastery of the sambenets – the tunics they made our ancestors wear as punishment, declaring their crimes. The surnames of my people are listed in that book and in that display, to make sure that the people of Mallorca never forget what disgusting creatures we are.”

She could feel his shock and wished that she had not told it so forcefully although she was not sure that she could have found a way to sound light-hearted about it. Miserably, she thought she had probably ensured that this was the last time he invited her to take a walk with him. It was probably for the best, given that nothing more than casual friendship would ever be possible between them, but she had been enjoying that friendship so much.

García reached out and took her hand. Raquel looked at him in astonishment and then down at their linked hands, aware that she had blushed scarlet and felt suddenly shy which was unheard of for her. She could think of nothing to say.

“That’s appalling,” García said and there was no more laughter in his tone. “I cannot believe that is allowed to happen when we are supposed to be trying to drag our country into the nineteenth century. Can nothing be done, Raquel? And what does this mean to you and your family? I’m shocked. You live well, your father has a prosperous business and is a master craftsman. I’d no idea.”

“Oh the Xuetes have done very well in trade and business. It is the only thing we have been allowed to do, you see. Most will trade with us. Some of the more progressive families will even invite us to dinner privately. But we cannot marry their sons or daughters, only within our own kind. We cannot hold public office, nor enter the church or the army. It is as if they found a glassmaker to build a glass wall about us two hundred years ago. He must have been a master glassblower indeed, that man. The glass is so clear and so perfect. Our sons can see everything on the other side of it but when they reach out to touch they find…just glass.”

“And your daughters?” García said. He sounded angry but he was still holding Raquel’s hand so she decided that he was not angry with her at all. She looked up and met the warm brown eyes.

“Daughters are restricted everywhere, Óscar. You know this. Do you have a sister?”

“No, she died when I was very young. I’m an only child.”

“Then you may not be so aware that even were I not from the Xuetes I could not marry where I chose without the approval of my father and there is no profession I could enter because I am a girl. Although I suppose I could have become a nun. I have an older cousin who will manage the glass factory and the shop and my father hopes I will agree to marry him when I have grown up a little and stopped being so angry.”

“How old are you?”

“I am twenty-two.”

“The same age as me. I think if you were going to stop being angry, you would have done it by now.”

Raquel laughed and was surprised that she could do so, given how upset she was. “I am sorry. This is not a pleasant conversation for a walk along the harbour.”

“I wanted to know. And I’m glad you told me. But there is one thing I still don’t understand. You go to church. I have seen all of your family go to church.”

“Oh we are not really Jewish, Óscar. It’s been two hundred years, most pretence turned to reality years ago. There are some churches we feel comfortable in. St Eulalia is my favourite, it is in the middle of the Segell District…the old Xueta quarter of Palma. My family used to live there but we moved out as Father became more successful.”

“You said there have been attempts to petition the King.”

“The King gave us our rights more than thirty years ago by royal proclamation but then withdrew some of them again because of local protests. The arguments go back and forth. We are not always sure any more what our legal rights are, but what we do know is that the people of Mallorca will never allow us to enjoy them unless they are forced to do so. And while Spain fights against Bonaparte, there are other things to think about. Sometimes I used to wish that my father would pack up and move away. To Barcelona or somewhere our surname has no meaning. But seeing what happened in Tarragona, to these poor people and to you…this is not the time for a grand gesture.”

García was silent for a moment, then looked up and gave her a grin which melted her heart. “Perhaps not. But I may be in the mood for a smaller gesture. Come on, I should get you back. It is going to rain again.”

***

Drill and training resumed the following morning and as if to make up for the brief respite, Cortez pushed the men hard for the whole of the following week. Some of them were not really strong enough for the long hours of work and after a few days, Óscar decided it was time to intervene. He waited until the afternoon siesta when the men had gone to their bedrolls and Cortez returned to the Casa Segura to see if any mail had been delivered. Óscar gave him time to open his letters and set aside a letter from his own mother since he could guess the contents fairly accurately without bothering to read it.

“Captain, we need to talk about the men. Some of them are still not strong enough to train this hard.”

Ángel gave a contemptuous snort. “Well they had better get used to it, García, because they cannot be coddled on the march, or in battle.”

“Some of them only joined a few weeks ago and they came from the streets. From the refugees. They have not eaten properly for months, they need some time to grow strong again.”

“They may not have time,” Ángel said. He was still scanning a letter but now he held it out to Óscar. Óscar took it. He was torn between exasperation at his senior’s intransigence about the men and awareness of how far their relationship had shifted since he had first joined Ángel on Contreras’ staff in Cadiz a year ago. Back then, Ángel would have barked out orders but it would not have occurred to him to share the letter with his junior. Óscar took it and read it quickly then looked up.

“Ciudad Rodrigo? I’ve never been there, have you?”

“I passed through it once. Fortress town on the Portuguese border. We had three days respite after a forced march of four hundred miles and the only things I remember clearly are that it was as hot as Hades, the fish stew was rank and there was a girl at the Golden Bell who could do things with her tongue that…”

“Ángel, for God’s sake!”

Ángel was laughing and the sight warmed Óscar as it always did. It had taken eight months before he had seen the older man manage anything more than a contemptuous sneer. “I can’t believe I can still make you blush, García. Although I found it hard to believe you’d not had a woman at all until you arrived in Cadiz. I suppose you’ve got time to catch up.”

Óscar laughed and handed him back the letter. “I’ve no ambition to catch up to you, sir, I’d be too worried about what else I’d catch along the way.”

“Oh I’m very careful these days. Bored married women and starry-eyed tradesmen’s daughters are my preference. Which of the men are struggling?”

Óscar ignored his flicker of distaste at Ángel’s remark and gave him the names. Ángel shrugged.

“All right. You can move them over to your company, you’ve fewer than I have anyway. Work out what they can do and rest them more often. But talk to them as well. If they can’t improve, they’ll either die on the march or get killed during their first skirmish. We can’t sit down and wait for them halfway to Portugal. If they aren’t strong enough, we may have to let them go. Colonel Julian de Anaya currently commands the 13th Mallorcan regiment and he has written to me about you, García. On arrival, you’ll command a company of your own.”

Óscar looked up quickly, his exasperation forgotten. “Really? I’d expected to act as your lieutenant for a while at least. This is…”

Óscar stopped, a thought occurring to him. He sighed. “Not that I am going to turn it down, sir, but I presume my father arranged that for me? I’m newly promoted and very young. I don’t suppose for one moment…”

“No, he didn’t. The recommendation was mine, based on your performance at Tarragona. I’m not expecting to regret it.”

Óscar was silent for a long moment. He realised that this was the first preferment of any kind that he had won on his own merit and it felt very significant. As he thought it, a glass of wine appeared on the table before him. He looked up. Ángel was holding his own glass, waiting for the toast. Óscar picked up the glass.

“Thank you, sir. I promise you won’t.”

“Good. I’m surprised to see you here. Usually you have slipped away by now to dally with the delectable Señorita Segura who is far too robust to require an afternoon siesta like the rest of her sex. Has she deserted you for a local beau?”

Óscar bit back several acerbic replies. “No,” he said mildly. “As a matter of fact, we have been invited to tour the glass factory this afternoon, sir, if you are interested. There is a visiting merchant from London who is looking to establish regular trade with the island and who may well become a customer. They are putting on a demonstration which will be followed by a grand dinner. Señor Segura would welcome the officers of the regiment, if…”

“Señor Segura had nothing to do with that invitation, boy. Go by all means, I’ve letters to write. But be careful with that girl, she has her eye on you. Not that I blame you, she looks very enthusiastic. But she’s utterly unsuitable marriage material and you’re far too gentlemanly to…”

Óscar set down his glass with a sharp clink on the table. “Sir, please stop it.”

His senior regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Stop what? I’m not serious, boy, I know you’ve more sense than that. I just don’t want a scene with her father before we leave because you’ve unintentionally compromised his ewe lamb. Not that she’d object, mind…”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking you to stop, sir, and you might not be serious but I am. These people are our hosts and they’ve been very generous. I hate the way you speak about them as though they’re automatically inferior because they made their fortune in trade. It’s outdated, unnecessary and rude. I can’t help the way you think but I’m asking you not to share it with me. I don’t see it the same way.”

Ángel did not speak for a moment. He picked up his wine glass and drained it then went to pour another from the decanter on the polished sideboard.

“I am suitably chastised,” he said dryly. “Although I think you would find your father would be horrified at the way you’re running around with a tradesman’s daughter.”

“I’m sure you are right, sir, but I’ve already made it clear to my father that I’m a man, not a boy and I’ll live my life the way I want. Otherwise I’d be dancing attendance in the drawing rooms of Cadiz instead of fighting for my country. Like you, I’ve given blood in that cause and I think that gives me the right to choose my friends and to take exception to you insulting them for your entertainment. You don’t have to agree with me. You just have to respect my request and keep it to yourself.”

There was a brief silence then Ángel  reached out, picked up Óscar’s glass.

“That was a very long speech.”

“I know.”

“It was also pompous.”

“I don’t care. I meant it.”

To Óscar’s surprise, the older man gave a faint smile. “Whatever happened to that very respectful young officer who joined me in Cadiz and took on every unpleasant job I landed him with? You were like an enthusiastic but very well trained puppy. I rather miss that at times. But you’re a lot more use these days. I’m not going to change my opinion, García. But I’ll do my best to keep it to myself.”

“Thank you,” Óscar said in surprise. “Are you coming to the glassworks?”

“No, you can give my apologies. I need to reply to Anaya and I want to start listing what supplies we’ll need for the journey and plan our route.”

Óscar could not help laughing. “We’ve two months, sir. You could spare an afternoon.”

His commander smiled and shook his head. “You won’t enjoy it as much if I’m there,” he said. “Go and get changed or you’ll be late.”

Halfway through the afternoon, Óscar realised that Ángel had been right and that he was enjoying the day far more without his senior officer’s faintly disapproving presence. He had visited the factory once before with Segura but it was the first time he had seen a proper demonstration of glass blowing and he was fascinated.

Mr Henry Summers, the English merchant, was a stocky gentleman in a plain suit and a down-to-earth manner. Óscar had wondered what kind of man travelled abroad during wartime in search of new suppliers and new markets when most merchants remained safely at home but he quickly decided that Summers was a man who would always want to be personally involved in the running of his many enterprises. He spoke no Spanish but very good French and he and Señor Segura conversed easily in that language.

The tour took in every aspect of the glass works, from the stokers at the furnace, through the foundry, to the moment when the liquid glass first formed in the blowpipe. The glassmaker chosen to demonstrate the process was Raquel’s cousin Miguel, who had recently attained the title of master glassblower after his three year apprenticeship. He was around thirty, a tall willowy figure who managed the blowpipe with considerable grace. Óscar watched as he turned the pipe from side to side, manipulating it to create the effect he wanted. He seemed supremely confident, a man sure of his own ability and his place in the world. Óscar thought Raquel could do a lot worse for a husband. She remained beside Óscar, explaining every process as they followed the tour and Óscar wished he could hold her hand and tell her just how much he could not stand the thought of her marrying this perfectly good man when she should be with him.

Afterwards they went to watch the final stage of the process which was the engraving of the fine goblet, a task which Señor Segura chose to perform himself. He had designed an elegant motif involving the coat of arms of the city livery company to which Summers belonged, with the merchant’s initials on the other side. Óscar watched the Englishman’s face as he studied the goblet, firing questions at Segura in rapid French and thought that Raquel’s father had found himself a new customer.

It was the first time Óscar had really allowed himself admit his intentions towards Raquel and it was both painful and joyous. His brief quarrel with Ángel Cortez earlier had crystallised feelings that had existed for months. It occurred to him that Cortez, who was not generally perceptive about the feelings of others, had been ahead of him on this occasion.

Óscar did not share Ángel’s opinion of the unsuitability of Raquel Segura as a wife, although he was sure his parents would. His mother had a list of potential brides for her beloved only son and if Óscar had obeyed his father’s wishes and taken up an administrative post in Cadiz, he knew she would have attempted to force the issue by now. As it was, every letter she wrote reminded him that it was his duty as his father’s heir to marry a girl of his own class and provide heirs to the title and the considerable estates.

This was even more urgent given Óscar’s gallant if wholly unnecessary determination to remain in combat. He had almost died at Tarragona and if it had not been for the intervention of Ángel Cortez and the Royal Navy he would have spent the rest of the war as a French prisoner. Was it not possible, his mother wondered, to return to Cadiz even for a short time to do his duty by the family? She could select the bride and make the wedding arrangements for him and his family could take care of their pregnant daughter-in-law if Óscar insisted on returning to fight.

Óscar was revolted by the idea of such an arrangement and had told his parents so, in terms that they could not possibly misunderstand. His father did not mention the matter again but his mother brought it up in every letter, bemoaning his intransigence, until Óscar no longer bothered to read them. He knew perfectly well that Cortez was right. His family would be appalled if he presented them with the daughter of a tradesman as his bride, no matter how wealthy she might be. He was not sure that her Xueta heritage would matter as much because he suspected his mother would know nothing about it anyway.

It did not matter to Óscar. He disliked the idea of being estranged from his family because he loved them but the title meant nothing to him. He supposed that one day he had looked forward to settling down on his family estate in Andalusia but he had known for a long time that he had already moved beyond the traditional values of his parents and he thought that Spain would move with him. If he could not live the life he wanted with the woman he loved beside him, he would choose a different life. What he was not sure was whether Raquel Segura shared his views and would be willing to take that enormous step with him, especially if her family also disapproved.

She was seated beside him at dinner, a lengthy meal with enormous amounts of food and wine. Óscar drank moderately and spent much of the meal flirting with his companion. At the end of the day, Mr Summers needed to return to his ship in order to catch the tide the following morning and his host offered to escort him to his boat personally. Many of the guests chose to follow and it became an impromptu procession lit by torches through the darkened streets of Palma.

Óscar walked beside Raquel. One of the younger men was playing music on some kind of wooden flute and it turned the procession into a parade. Occasionally a shutter crashed open and there were furious shouts from respectable citizens trying to sleep but the Xuetes paid no heed. Summers walked beside his host looking slightly bewildered but thoroughly delighted at this send-off and at some point, Óscar reached out and took Raquel’s hand in the darkness. She did not attempt to draw away but moved closer to him. They walked in step together and in step with the procession, waving as the small boat pulled away from the quay and its lantern was no more than a flickering yellow light on the water.

The party broke up after that, saying goodnight and thanking their host before returning to their own homes. Óscar and Raquel followed the Segura party back through the narrow streets to the Casa Segura. It was a clear December night and very cold and Óscar paused to remove his coat, draping it around Raquel’s shoulders. The brief pause meant they had dropped behind the rest of the group and as Óscar went to take her hand again, she moved closer and drew his arm about her shoulders. They walked slowly and Óscar wondered what her father would say if he took it into his head to turn back to find out what delayed his daughter.

The door was still open when they reached it, the doorman sleepy and uninterested and waiting to lock up. The rest of the family seemed to have gone straight to their beds. Raquel removed Óscar’s coat and handed it to him with visible reluctance.

“I do not want this night to end,” she said.

Óscar took the coat and put it back around her. “Ten more minutes,” he said recklessly. “There will be nobody on the terrace overlooking the bay.”

The blue eyes widened and then she laughed softly and took his hand. “My mother will not be impressed.”

“Nor would mine, but she’s not here. Come along.”

It was very cold out on the wide, tiled balcony but the view of glittering lights along the shore and out on the ships and boats anchored in the bay was well worth it. Óscar stood with his arm about her with her head on his shoulder, the dark gold curls tickling his jaw. He had not thought to speak this soon but it occurred to him that perhaps he would never have such a good opportunity again and at least if they were about to be interrupted by a furious parent, he could honestly claim honourable intentions.

“Raquel – I don’t want this to end either.”

She turned towards him and into his arms. Óscar had no idea if it had been intentional or not and did not care. He bent his head to kiss her and she reached up and put her arms about his neck, drawing him closer.

They stood together for a long time and kissing her settled any lingering uncertainty. Eventually he drew back a little, still holding her hands. There was no light on the balcony and he could just make out her features in the dim light from the window above the terrace. Óscar wondered suddenly whose room that was but he decided he did not care. He took a deep breath.

“Raquel, I shouldn’t be here kissing you on the terrace when I’ve not spoken to your father and I’ve no idea what he’ll say. But given that I’m about to set off an explosion in my family that they’ll probably hear in Paris, I need to be sure of you first. You must know how I feel about you. Will you be my wife?”

He felt her hands tremble in his and for a panicked moment he thought she was going to pull away and flee, then her fingers tightened around his and she gave a little sigh.

“Oh Óscar,  I’m very glad you spoke to me first. I’ve no idea either. I don’t even know if we can do this at all. But if we can’t, it won’t be because I don’t love you.”

He drew her closer again. “If you love me, querida, we can do it. I’ll need to explain my circumstances in full to your father, but to you all I can say is that I’m either a very good marital prospect or utterly penniless apart from my officer’s pay which isn’t very much. But whatever happens, I’ll find a way to support you, I promise.”

She kissed him again and he heard her soft laugh in the darkness. “We won’t be penniless, Captain. I’ve no idea if my father will be disappointed that I don’t marry Miguel, but he’d never cut me off without a penny. I am more concerned about my status as a Xueta. I’m not even sure that I am allowed to marry outside my people.”

“They cannot stop you. Legally, that restriction ended years ago along with a number of others. It has been perpetrated by the Mallorcan authorities and upheld by their courts in direct contravention to the dictates of the Royal decree. If we can’t find a priest to marry us here, we’ll take a Royal Navy ship to Menorca and get married there, they don’t have any of these absurd restrictions.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I wrote to them. I’ve a friend in the Royal Navy, we met in Tarragona. He’s in England at present and when I began to think…anyway, I wrote asking his advice. His Captain sent a letter of recommendation to the British authorities there, they’ll give us any help we require. I’d rather marry you here with your family and friends in attendance, but…”

“Father Dominic would perform the service, I am sure of it,” Raquel said. She sounded breathless. “I know you must soon leave. I do not wish to wait, Óscar. Unless your family…”

“That may take a while. I will write to them, but I will not wait for their approval, providing I have yours. Do I?”

“Yes.”

Óscar bent to kiss her again, no longer feeling the cold. After a long, very happy moment, he drew back reluctantly.

“We should go inside. Tomorrow I will speak to your father, Raquel, and then…”

“That will be quite unnecessary,” a voice said from above and both Óscar and Raquel jumped. Óscar stepped back, still holding her hand and looked up at the illuminated window. It stood open and Raquel’s father was leaning on the window ledge in shirt sleeves.

“Sir. My apologies. I had no idea. I mean, I would not have…”

“Captain García, it is completely unnecessary to tell me that you would not be kissing my daughter on the terrace if you knew I could see you. I accept your word for it. Raquel, you are wearing the Captain’s coat. Give it back and go to bed, it is past midnight. Tomorrow we will have breakfast together and discuss how this will work. You will not go to Menorca, you will be married here from our home. Congratulations, my children, I think you will be very happy. Now let me sleep, I am tired.”

***

News of the betrothal reached Ángel through his servant. Manuel had been a refugee from Tarragona, an underfed fourteen-year-old orphan who had attached himself to Ángel aboard the Royal Navy ship and had somehow never left. Ángel had dined in a tavern in the city the previous evening and had watched the procession pass with a curious sense of regret. He wished that he had felt able to accept the invitation and envied García his easy ability to mix with whatever company he found himself in.

He stayed out late drinking and was trying to decide whether to join his hosts for breakfast or get something in town on his way to the training field, when Manuel appeared with a jug of hot water, a welcome cup of coffee and the news that the family was all at breakfast celebrating the betrothal of Captain García to Señorita Raquel. Ángel almost dropped his coffee and scathingly told Manuel not to listen to gossip, but when the boy had gone he sat sipping the scalding black liquid and quietly seethed.

He had been well aware of García’s infatuation with the Segura girl and even more aware that she was a woman who knew how to make the best of her opportunities. From time to time, Ángel had considered making an attempt on the girl’s well-guarded virtue himself. She pretended indifference but in the early weeks of their arrival she had been just as willing to flirt with him as with García. He had not responded and she had withdrawn, concentrating all her efforts on the younger man. Ángel had not expected them to succeed so spectacularly.

Unable to bear the festive atmosphere and the discussion of wedding plans, Ángel went to an inn for breakfast and then rode out to barracks. He was not surprised to receive a note from García on his arrival giving him the news and excusing himself from duty for the day. Ángel  badly wanted to scribble a scathing response and send it back with the Segura servant but he stopped himself. He had made his views clear to García and the boy had ignored him. He had no legal right to interfere in the marriage of his junior officer and if García’s letter were to be believed, he could not even complain that it would delay their return to duty. The earliest a transport could be provided to take them to Oporto ready for their march across to Ciudad Rodrigo was mid-January. García’s letter informed him that Señor Segura hoped to arrange the wedding before Christmas to give the young couple some time together.

Ángel read García’s letter again. He had apologised for not catching Ángel that morning to tell him in person and hoped to have his company that evening for a bachelor dinner at their favourite tavern to celebrate. Ángel was surprised at how furious he was. It was not really his business if García chose to ruin himself and it would make no difference to their working relationship; the boy was a professional. But there was something about the girl that bothered Ángel and he decided he needed to speak to Raquel Segura himself.

***

Raquel had just returned from the market when she met Ángel Cortez in the hallway and sensed that he had been waiting for her. She paused politely and he bowed.

“My apologies, Señorita, I can see that you are busy. I was hoping for a few moments of your time.”

Raquel felt her heart sink. She could guess his views on her betrothal and she had no particular wish to hear them but she knew that Óscar was dreading the conversation and it occurred to her that she might be able to blunt the worst of his senior’s wrath if she allowed him to take it out on her. With a sigh she handed her basket to the maid and led the way out onto the eastern terrace, a peaceful courtyard with a small fountain in the centre and several tiled tables and basketwork chairs.

“Won’t you sit down, Captain Cortez? Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you. This will not take very long, Señorita.”

“I’m glad about that, since it is obvious you want to shout at me. Very well, let’s get it over with.”

Cortez fixed her with his cool blue-grey eyes. “I should not need to say this to you. Nothing could be more unsuitable than this marriage. You are not his equal in birth or fortune. Because of you his family will cut him off. You will ruin his life and his happiness and what can you bring him in return?”

“I bring him love, Captain Cortez. I understand that has no meaning for you, but in my family it has always been very important. And apparently Óscar agrees with me.”

“Love?” Cortez almost spat the word. “Is that what you think he feels for you? Oh, I’ve seen the way he looks at you and I’ve no doubt that he has feelings, but I promise you he will satisfy those after a week or two in bed with you and will be left with a lifetime of regret. Do you think that a woman like you will be able to hold a man like him?

Raquel had not intended to respond, but she could feel herself getting angry. “A woman like me? And just what kind of woman am I, Captain? I am curious: is it my face, my fortune or my character you object to?”

“It is everything. Your people, although good enough, are not even accepted here on Mallorca. You are outcasts. It is not your fault but that will not help García when he finds himself shunned. Your fortune is well enough for another tradesman, but it is nothing compared to his birth and lineage and everything he will inherit if he marries a woman of his own kind.”

“If, of course, there is anything left of his family fortune by the time the French have ravaged their way through Spain. But do go on, I’m charmed by what passes for your reasoning.”

“As for your character, I think you are a scheming young woman who has taken advantage of a naïve boy to catch herself a husband who might help her raise herself to a better position in life. I do not think you care for him at all. If you did, you would do the decent thing and withdraw from this.”

“Well if that is your hope, you are going to be very disappointed, because I have every intention of marrying him. What happens after that will be up to him. I will go where he goes, follow where he leads. I love him. A man like you cannot imagine what that means. I have heard enough, I am leaving.”

Cortez stepped between her and the door. “Not just yet, Señorita. There was one more item on your list. Your face – and the rest of you. Now that is the reason we are in this situation. On that score I have nothing at all to complain of, I have been admiring it myself for a while now. If I had known you would go this far, I would have taken you to bed two months ago when you were casting lures in my direction. I would have enjoyed you very much and García would have realised what you were like. I should have done it then but perhaps after all it is not too late.”

It had not occurred to Raquel that he would touch her, which made her slow to react. Before she had time to utter more than a squawk of protest she was in his arms, his mouth covering hers. There was none of Óscar’s gentle consideration in this man. His hands moved down her body with a familiarity that appalled her and his mouth bruised hers, forcing her lips apart, his tongue invading her mouth.

Frozen shock was followed by a wave of utter fury. Raquel could not easily scream with his mouth on hers but she managed to make a sound in the back of her throat which surprised even her and caused Cortez to step backwards in astonishment. He stood looking down at her, seeming almost bewildered by what he had just done.

Raquel gave him no time to speak. Stepping forward she lifted both hands and shoved him hard in the chest. He staggered backwards and Raquel began to hit him with both fists, pummelling him as hard as she could, not caring what part of him she connected with. Cortez put up both hands to protect his face and then yelled in pain as her fist struck his left hand. Raquel knew it had been badly injured at Tarragona and that for a time, he had thought he would lose the use of it. His cry made her pause for a moment and Cortez took the opportunity to dodge behind a table.

“Stop it, you’re going to cripple me, you little termagant. In fact I think you’ve already done so.”

“Come out from behind that table and I will castrate you!”

“Then I’m not coming out.” To Raquel’s fury, she could hear laughter in his voice. “Stop. Just stop and breathe, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I am going to hurt you!”

“Just listen to me. Listen for a moment. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve no idea why I did that, it was the most stupid…”

“I know why you did it,” Raquel spat. “It is because you are an animal, a creature who thinks it is your right to bully women, to intimidate those weaker than you, to hurt…”

“Raquel, please stop. That’s not it. I mean I am…perhaps I am some of those things. I am not a good man. I am not like García.”

“No, that you are not!”

Cortez was nursing his hand against his chest as if it genuinely hurt. His eyes were on hers again but his expression was different. “I will go. You will not want me in this house after this. I can find lodgings in town or near the barracks until we leave and I promise that I will not trouble you again. García will think I have left because I disapprove of his marriage. Raquel, you should let him think that. Don’t tell him…”

“Of course I am going to tell him, you imbecile. How else do I explain this?” Raquel touched her lip which was bleeding a little.

“You are a very intelligent woman, you will find a way. As I will find a way to explain why I cannot use my hand for a week. If you tell him I did this, he will challenge me and I must accept. We will fight and he will not be content with first blood, he will want to kill me.”

“I hope he does.”

“He isn’t going to kill me in a duel, Raquel, but I could very easily kill him. Don’t do it.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, I am telling you that with a sword in my hand I am all the things you accuse me of being. I cannot always stop.”

Raquel felt a little chill and her anger seeped away into sudden fear. “You would kill him? Your friend?”

“He’s probably the only friend I’ve ever had. Possibly the only one I will have. And I have just realised that if I had the opportunity to kill him to prevent him from marrying you, I might well do it. Let me go, Raquel. Go and find him. Take care of him for me and when we leave for the war I’ll do my best to take care of him for you. It is the only thing I can do for you. Let me do it.”

Raquel stared at him. She was no longer afraid and no longer angry but she was utterly bewildered. “That makes no sense.”

Unexpectedly his expression softened into something like a smile. “None at all, but men often make fools of themselves when they…never mind. I do not want to hurt him, Raquel, but I cannot bear the thought of hurting you.”

Abruptly Raquel felt the beginning of shocked understanding. Her brain rejected it immediately.

“I do not believe you care what happens to me.”

“It is much better that you continue to believe that.”

Raquel did not respond. Memories were coming back to her, flashes of the past four months and she was horrified to realise that in fact she was having no trouble believing him at all. Wrapped up in her growing feelings for Óscar García, she had missed it entirely; but the signs had been there. She could see him watching her come to the realisation that she had been utterly blind.

“Oh. Oh no. Captain, are you telling me that you…”

“Don’t say it,” he said quickly. “I don’t ever want it to be said. You once gave me permission to use your name, Raquel and it seems I have accepted it. Can you not do the same for me? Just this once.”

Raquel realised that her throat was choked with tears. “Ángel…I had no idea…”

“My dear, I had no idea either until just now. But even if I had, you would still have chosen to marry Óscar. You are, as I said earlier, a very intelligent woman. I need to leave now. I need to be alone. Please.”

Raquel nodded, feeling the tears spill over onto her cheeks. He stepped forward, took her hand and bowed over it with an old fashioned courtesy he had never showed her before.

“Congratulations on your engagement, Raquel. Be happy. You both deserve it.”

***

They were married three days before Christmas and the twelve days of the season were to be an extended celebration before their inevitable separation. Óscar had written to his parents and received no reply; although there had been plenty of time for a letter. He chose not to dwell on it. The Segura family welcomed him as one of their own and a long session with Raquel’s father discussing finances and settlements made it clear that even if the García family chose to cast him off entirely, he could make a good life with these people. Privately, Óscar was wondering if he might make a career in the law. He had spent many hours studying the various legal documents pertaining to the status of the Xuetes of Mallorca and he found it unexpectedly fascinating.

The wedding took place in the church of St Eulalia. Nobody raised any public objection to it and one or two of Óscar’s acquaintances in the town outside of the Xueta community even went so far as to congratulate him. Others did not mention it at all but continued to treat Óscar with courtesy. As long as there were no repercussions for his wife and her family, Óscar did not really care what they thought.

His relationship with Ángel Cortez was still fragile but seemed to be improving again. Cortez had said little about the marriage other than to express concern about its effect on Óscar’s future inheritance. He had expressed his disapproval more tangibly by moving out of the Segura house and taking lodgings close to the barracks but he managed it with surprising tact, citing pressure of work as the cause and the Seguras pretended to believe him. He did not attend the wedding but sent an elegant gift of Castilian china which must have cost more than he could easily afford. Óscar recognised an olive branch and thanked him warmly.

The Segura family usually attended Mass at St Eulalia on Christmas Eve but the two Spanish officers had been invited weeks earlier to attend the traditional Mallorcan midnight service at the cathedral. Ángel, who had a profound dislike of all religion had sent a civil refusal but Óscar had been looking forward to the service. He had been told of the singing of El Cant de la Sibil-la which was a Gregorian melody introduced to the island in medieval times. It was sung virtually without instruments and the singing was led by a boy in medieval costume bearing a sword.

“A sword?” Óscar enquired, when his wife explained the tradition. “That doesn’t sound very much like the birth of the Christ child, Raquel.”

They were lying late in bed, listening to the sound of the household coming to life around them and Óscar had been wondering how he was going to be able to rise from this bed in a month’s time and leave her behind. He had never been this happy in his life.

“I believe the song is about the final judgement,” Raquel said cautiously. “Although I have not been personally of course. I am told that the service and the music is very beautiful. You should go, Óscar and then you can tell me all about it. I’ve often wished to hear it.”

She sounded wistful and Óscar felt a little pain about his heart. He leaned over and kissed her. “Just to remind you that until I have to step onto that ship, I am not going anywhere without you. Come with me.”

“Óscar, I cannot. No Xueta has attended Mass in the cathedral that I know of. We have our own churches.”

“Who say the same Mass to the same God. Come with me.”

Raquel smiled in the way that melted his heart every time she did it. “I love you but you have made your gesture, Óscar and we are married. It is enough.”

“I did not marry you as a gesture but because I love you. And it will never be enough until that book is burned to ashes and that display in St Domingo is torn down. When I come back from the war I shall attend to both personally. I won’t force you to come, Raquel, but I wish you would. I would like to show the world how proud I am of my wife.”

“What if they turn me away?”

“Then they turn us both away and I will make them regret it one day. It’s up to you, querida. I don’t want to spoil your Christmastide.”

“I have you, Óscar. Nothing can spoil this Christmastide.” Raquel sat up. “Very well, I will come. The worst that can happen is a little embarrassment and the best is that I will attend Mass in my own cathedral in my own city for the first time. If you can be brave in battle, Óscar, I can be brave in this small way.”

She was nervous all the same. Óscar could feel her hand shivering slightly in his as they walked through the well-lit streets, strung with lanterns for the season. His father-in-law had shaken his head at the idea but made no attempt to dissuade them.

“I do not think they will let you in, Raquel, but if you are determined, then go. It will be one more protest at the way we are treated and if they turn away an officer who has shed blood for his country and it becomes known, it can only help our cause.”

“I’ll make sure it is known,” Óscar said grimly.

Segura laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “My daughter married a warrior,” he said. “But then so did my son-in-law.”

Heads turned as they approached the brilliantly lit main doors to the immense gothic cathedral. Already the organ played inside and hundreds of candles lit up the space. Through the open door, Óscar could see the huge vaulted ceiling and the glorious colours of stained glass reflecting back the candlelight. By the door he could see a gaggle of robed priests in anxious conversation and several members of the island council in their finest clothing looking grave and unsure. Óscar thought they were plucking up the courage to step forward and tell him that he could not bring his wife into the Mass. He wished he could punch them but he knew that would upset Raquel more, so he steeled himself for the embarrassment and prepared to make a dignified retreat.

Before any of the men was brave enough to step forward, there was an approaching sound which was so familiar that for a minute or two Óscar did not even realise how incongruous it was in this holy place at such an hour. He could see other people stopping, turning to look and he knew suddenly what it was and spun around, putting his arm around Raquel. He could not believe that somehow they were sending out the city watch to make an arrest but the sound of marching feet was unmistakable and Óscar decided that if any man put a hand on his wife, he would kill them.

It was not the city watch. To Óscar’s complete astonishment, one hundred and fifty men of the 13th Mallorcan Infantry were marching in, wearing dress uniform. A familiar voice rapped out an order and the men halted by the door of the cathedral.

Óscar could not believe his eyes. He had never seen Ángel Cortez so neatly turned out. He had cut his silver blond hair short which robbed him of some of his piratical looks and made him look like a professional soldier.

Ángel stepped forward and saluted and Óscar responded automatically.

“Captain Cortez. Er…have you come to Mass?”

“We have all come to Mass, Captain García. In honour of your recent marriage, the men of the 13th Mallorcan Infantry are here to celebrate the birth of Christ and to pay tribute to their brave officer and his beautiful and very courageous wife.” Ángel  turned and raised his voice. “Sergeant! Salute to the Captain’s lady!”

There was a swish and clash of steel as swords were drawn and bayonets lifted in salute. Óscar responded, his throat tight. Around them was complete silence apart from the haunting beauty of the organ music floating on the still night air through the cathedral doors.

The Sergeant called the men to order and Ángel Cortez turned to Óscar and his stunned wife. “Shall we go in? The Mass will be starting soon and I’ve no wish to miss any part of it. Sergeant, march the men in and make sure they behave.”

“Their bayonets, sir?”

“Oh.” Ángel looked momentarily nonplussed and beside him, Oscar heard his wife give an undignified snort of laughter. Surprisingly, Ángel grinned instead of glaring at her. “I had forgotten it isn’t usual to take weapons into a cathedral.”

“I think Tarragona may have confused you,” Óscar said. “They can pile them beside the door, Sergeant. Carry on.”

A robed churchman stepped forward to escort them to a pew. Ángel seemed to hesitate for a moment when ushered to sit beside Raquel and Óscar wondered if he felt awkward give his open disbelief in God and everything the church represented, but Raquel smiled at him somewhat mistily and he came forward and sat beside her, while his men shuffled into pews further back.

Óscar stopped trying to make sense of it and gave himself up to the beauty of the cathedral, the glory of the music and the deep sense of spiritual connection he felt during the Mass. During the pure notes of El Cant de la Sibil-la he felt his wife take his hand and glancing at her he saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.

When it was over, Óscar took his wife’s hand and followed Ángel outside. They watched as the men set off back to barracks. When they were out of sight, Ángel offered his arm to Raquel. Wearing a particularly implacable expression he led her towards some of the departing worshippers. Óscar watched in awe as he proceeded to introduce Raquel to the entire council of Mallorca including the High Judge. Óscar thought he looked ready to draw his sword if any man dared to refuse the introduction. None of them did.

Walking back to the Casa Segura, Raquel said:

“Captain Cortez, how are you spending Christmastide?”

“Very comfortably, Doña Raquel, at the home of Señor Moreno and his family. Though I thought I might accompany you to Mass at the cathedral again on the festival of the Three Kings.”

Raquel laughed aloud. “Come to St Eulalia with us and dine with us afterwards. It will be less dramatic, I promise you.”

“Doña, I…”

“Please, Ángel. Just one evening before you have to leave. If you could do this, you can do that. It would mean a great deal to both of us.”

Ángel gave a slightly crooked smile. “Very well, Doña Raquel. Enjoy your Christmas. García, you have put on weight but I expect the march from Oporto to the Portuguese border will soon sweat that off you.”

Óscar stepped forward and drew him into a quick embrace. “You can yell at me all the way if you like. Thank you, Ángel. You’re a very good friend.”

Ángel looked startled but did not pull back. “Not always. Not that often. But it pleases me that you think so. Goodnight, Captain García. Doña …”

“Raquel.”

The crooked smile came again. “Raquel. Please know that the sight of you marching up to that cathedral daring those old fools to do their worst, will stay with me all my life.”

“Thank you. I once spoke of living behind a glass wall, Ángel. Tonight, you broke it. Only one pane of glass, perhaps, but for me it was a very important one. I will never forget that.” Raquel’s solemn expression vanished and the mischief was back. “And I am glad you took my advice about your hair. It suits you.”

Angel raised a hand to touch his hair involuntarily then stopped himself and gave her an unconvincing scowl.

“It is as well that we’re leaving soon, Doña Raquel or I shall have no dignity left. I wish you a happy and peaceful Christmastide. Goodnight.”

Óscar watched him go, his boots echoing on the old cobbled streets.

“I cannot believe he did that,” he said. “He loathes the church, I’ve never seen him set foot inside one unless he intended to use it as a fortress or a hospital.”

“I do not think he came for the Mass, Óscar.”

Óscar looked down at her. He thought she looked a little sad and wondered if she was upset at Ángel’s stubborn refusal to spend Christmas with them.

“He did it for both of us, Raquel. He has got over his objections to our marriage, I promise you. And it was never about you, it’s just his stupid, outdated notions of social class. In fact he likes you more than I realised.”

Raquel smiled. “As long as you like me, Óscar, I really do not mind.”

Óscar grinned, kissed her and drew her inside. The thought of his impending departure saddened him, but it was Christmas and she was with him and he intended to enjoy every moment he could.

Vercingetorix’s Virgin

Vercingetorix’s Virgin by Virginia Crow

Today I’m delighted to welcome author Virginia Crow, who has joined me on Writing with Labradors to talk about Vercingetorix’s Virgin, her contribution to Alternate Endings, the new anthology from the Historical Writer’s Forum.

Hi, Virginia, welcome to Writing with Labradors. I’m very excited about the release of the latest Historical Writers Forum anthology “Alternate Endings” and it was great to get an early look at your story.

Hello Lynn! Thank you for hosting me and my story on your fabulous blog!

You’re very welcome. Can you start by telling us a bit about what you generally write and how does this story fit into that?

I have to admit, this story broke a number of the constraints I normally wrap around my writings! It doesn’t really match up with any of them – at least not yet – I’ll explain more about that later on.

I absolutely love exploring history and finding the random events which have been tucked into the telling with seemingly little relevance. Only, they must have been significant enough to have been recorded in the first place! These events provide the bones, while the plot wraps around the flesh of the story. Because this is how I write, I don’t have a specific time period I write in, but Vercingetorix’s Virgin is the earliest to date!

Most of my writing has an edge of mythology, be it historical fantasy like my Caledon books, or cultural superstitions like in The Year We Lived. I find the extra dimension which this gives to both the plot and the characters absolutely invaluable. The incorporation of Roman religion allowed me to explore this aspect within the story, and the superstitions and beliefs which surrounded the characters is at the core of Vercingetorix’s Virgin.

Ancient Rome is a long way off. What first sparked your interest in that period?

When I was invited to write a What If? story, I spent a long time trying to come up with an idea. I tried to think of figures from history who I had come to know from researching my own books, sparing the life of my historical heroes, or altering the course of battles. But then comes the inevitable realisation that sometimes it is the unjust nature of events surrounding these historical figures which drew me to them in the first place! Did I really want to take that from them?

So I shelved those ideas and talked through a few different ones with my family. My sister suggested: What if the Gunpowder Plot had been successful? and I was leaning towards that. But I have to admit to knowing almost nothing about the Stuart period beyond what I was taught in school, and I just couldn’t motivate myself to actually research it.
Then came an invite from Pen & Sword to review Simon Elliott’s book Alexander the Great versus Julius Caesar. Bingo! This was exactly what I was looking for: something I had a deep interest in, but no real connection to. So, after reading and reviewing the book (which is fantastic, by the way, and I would definitely recommend!), I started to delve into researching that world…

That’s really interesting. I’d like to see your ideas about the Gunpowder Plot if you ever get around to it. To come to your story – it’s a very interesting concept. How did you come up with this particular alternate ending. I mean, when you first heard about the theme of the anthology had you already considered this one for yourself or did the idea come to you once you started thinking about it?

Thank you!

I knew I wanted something which would show a different ending but not alter the entire course of history. Every story I write focusses on little things which make big ripples. To tweak the Conquest of Gaul meant that big ripples were caused, but they were only as transient as those ripples on the water’s surface. Eventually, they would fade away and history would return to its course once more. But, I have to admit, I enjoyed inserting these two heroes of the ancient world. I’ve never really told the story of famous people (well, not exactly – although The Year We Lived might be an exception to that!), but the theme for the anthology meant that a significant event (and therefore significant persons) needed to be modified…

A very real challenge followed – to explore the precise manners and relationships of these two men – but the result hopefully worked!

I think it worked very well. Tell me a bit about the Vestal Virgins. Who were they and what was their importance in Roman society?

Like most people, I suspect, the first time I ever came across Vestal Virgins was in the Procol Harum song A Whiter Shade of Pale. I never really understood the reference, but then I never really understood most of that song anyway!

A few years ago, I visited Rome with two of my sisters. It was such an incredible place – history tucked in everywhere, hiding in plain sight. We behaved like real tourists with our sightseeing and one of the places we came across was the ruins of the Temple of Vesta. There isn’t much left of it now, but what is there shows the wealth and power which was given to this aspect of the Roman beliefs. While we were in Rome, I got one of those books with plasticky pages which you can hold over one another to see what these ruined buildings had looked like in their heyday, and there was a little bit of writing about each place.

This was where my interest in the Vestal Virgins sparked. One of the things it mentioned was the power Vestals had to pardon people who were being led to execution. That was it! A potential ripple on the surface of the water!

I researched more for the rest of the time we were in Rome, and continued after we returned home. I had an idea for a story based on this event, which then went on to follow a number of twists and turns (of course!) before concluding in the horrendous death of essentially being buried alive which awaited any Vestal who broke her vows.

Vestals played an incredible role in Roman society. They were deemed to be the very best of humanity. Their word was trusted intrinsically, they were never questioned, they were allowed to oversee legal affairs, and their touch and gaze carried the power of the goddess herself.

Vestals served a thirty-year tenure in the temple, they wanted for nothing and were given all they required. But thirty years must have seemed a long time, missing out on the prime of their lives. Many did go on to marry after their service was complete – in fact, a former Vestal was thought to be one of the best wives a man could have – but placing those things which had been forbidden into the hands of a person accustomed to never being questioned, did not always make for the most amorous marriage beds!

That’s fascinating, I’d no idea the Vestals were that influential. Or that some of them married afterwards. That really must have been an interesting adjustment. Have you written other short stories or is this your first? How do you find working in this shorter medium as opposed to writing full length novels? Which do you prefer?

Eeek! My writing motto is: Never use one word when ten will suffice.  So writing short stories is always a challenge for me! Back in January 2020, before COVID, I set my New Year Resolution to enter a writing competition/journal each week. It was a very ambitious target but, courtesy of my obsessive nature, I managed to see it through. I got one short story shortlisted and a poem published, which might not seem like much for 52 weeks, but I felt quite proud of them both!

But more than that, I learnt how to make this style work. I finally perfected (good enough for me, anyway!) the art of writing in different genres and different lengths. Since then, I’ve had a few more acceptances too, which is fantastic.

After writing Vercingetorix’s Virgin, I’ve dabbled with Alternative History a little bit more. I have an idea to possibly one day publish an anthology along the lines of “What did the Romans ever do for us?”, pointing out how different life would be without their input. It might never come to fruition, but you never know!

I love that idea! I bet it would be popular. And just wow about your Story-a-Week project. I could never manage to stick to that – very impressive.

To move on to your characters, what was it like writing Julius Caesar? He’s such an iconic historical character – what did you want your readers to learn about him from this story?

Firstly, I have to explain that I had preconceived ideas about Julius Caesar. I had come across him in school as the first Roman to conquer Britain. That was my first misconception, but it was not my last. And that quote, Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) has absolutely nothing to do with Britain!

So I had to undo everything I thought I knew about him.

Thankfully, my dad is something of an Ancient Rome/Ancient Greece enthusiast – my siblings and I always suspected it was because he was there when it was all happening, and we say that only half-jokingly! – so there was plenty of pointers he could give regarding where to look for more information concerning Caesar.

For me, it wasn’t the case that the more I read about him the more I liked him.  It was more like: the more I read about him, the more I pitied him. Here was a man who built up an empire but was left with so much that he was entirely alienated. All his work and campaigning ultimately counted for nothing.  His successor would go on to murder Caesar’s son, establish himself as an Emperor on the basis of the conquests Caesar had made, and even re-model Caesar’s calendar to deify himself on an equal footing.

Ultimately, what we tend to remember the most about Julius Caesar is his death. How sad is that? His work, his conquests, all forgotten as his own people turned on him.

So, when I came to write him, I wanted him to be connectable. I didn’t want a distant, aloof figure, because I honestly don’t think that was how Caesar wanted to be. Ironically – since he made himself dictator – I think he missed people. So, for the sake of Vercingetorix’s Virgin, he is someone always trying to reach out without being seen as weak; someone seeking to cement his legacy, but who knows it is unobtainable; someone who is looking to put right the relationships he had failed to rectify the first-time around.

In many respects, Vercingetorix was the anti-Caesar. Writing them both – especially as they interacted with their seconds and the Vestals – was a brilliant contrast to explore.

That makes Caesar sound much more human, somehow. And rather vulnerable. It makes me wish that he really could have had an alternate ending.

So now that you’ve tackled Caesar, do you have any other alternate endings that you’d like to write about one day? What are they?

I have written one other alternative history story. It’s called The Triumph of Maxentius, which is based on the question: What if Constantine lost the battle of Milvian Bridge? This would have had major repercussions for the Christian religion and this was the exact topic of that story.

Because of the gap in time but the huge impact they left, I’ve found Roman history is my preferred era for alternate endings!

And one day, I might have a go at the Gunpowder Plot one, too…

Ha! I’m going to keep an eye out for that one. Virginia, this has been great and I hope a lot of people go on to read your amazing story, it’s well worth it. What else are you working on at the moment? Anything recently published or in the pipeline?

My obsessive nature coming into play again, I am a strict NaNoWriMo participant. Having avoided it for years, I signed up in 2019 and now I refuse to be beaten by it! So all this month I’m chipping away at a new – rather different – novel. For the first time, I’m attempting a dual timeline story. Set part in the 3rd Century, and part in the 18th Century, this book draws from the story of the Amcotts Moor Woman. It is steeped in early church history and runaway Jacobites – a sop to my passion for theology and history!
I’m terrible for starting books, though, and never seeing them through. Maybe this one will get finished but I suspect, if it hasn’t been written by the end of November, it will join my increasingly growing pile of “I-will-get-around-to-it-one-day” books. Time will tell!

That sounds like an amazing project. I hope you do manage to get it finished. Either way, I’ll be following your progress through November as I struggle to get started with my own new book.

Virginia, thanks so much for joining me on Writing With Labradors. It’s been lovely to have you and good luck with the publication of the anthology and with NaNoWriMo as well.

About Virginia

Virginia Crow is an award-winning Scottish author, who grew up in Orkney and now lives in Caithness. She comes from a large family of writers and readers, and has been surrounded by books her whole life. Her favourite genres to write are fantasy and historical fiction, sometimes mixing the two together. She enjoys swashbuckling stories, her favourite book being The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas and she is still waiting for a screen adaption that lives up to it!

When not writing, Virginia is usually to be found teaching music. She believes wholeheartedly in the power of music, especially as a tool of inspiration, and music is often playing when she writes. Her life is governed by two spaniels, Orlando and Jess, and she enjoys exploring the Caithness countryside with these canine sidekicks.

As well as books, she loves cheese, music, and films, but hates mushrooms.

Readers can find out more about Virginia on social media here:

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/DaysDyingGlory

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/DaysDyingGlory

Instagram:  https://www.instagram.com/stompermcewan

Alternate Endings is available on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon.

Eton Mess

Eton Mess is in loving memory of a very gorgeous dog called India and is dedicated to her companion, my friend and enthusiastic reader Janet Watkinson.

Welcome to my free short story for Halloween 2022. Those of you who have read my previous Halloween stories will know that they are generally traditional ghost stories, designed to cause a bit of a chill.

For some reason, I couldn’t come up with my usual ghost story this year. Maybe I just wore out my ideas last year, or maybe it’s because I really wanted something a bit more light hearted during these times of doom and gloom. Whatever the reason, I’ve written something different this year, though it’s very much based in the season.

When I was a child I used to adore school stories. Nothing could have been further from my East End schooling than the tennis and cricket matches of boarding schools but I loved them. The Chalet School were my favourites, closely followed by the Jennings books but I read every one of the genre I could get my hands on.

I even managed to wade through Tom Brown’s Schooldays. I adored George MacDonald Fraser’s follow-up books about the dastardly bully, Flashman, and his spectacular army career and there’s a good reason why the bully in this story is going into the cavalry. One of these days, if he’s made it this far through the war, I’d quite like to introduce him to Major-General van Daan who has a long memory and a really large dog.

My research into the customs of Eton College during this period made it clear that a lot of the traditions we associate with the school came in rather later. There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of uniformity about how the school, including the Boarding Houses, was run at this point, though it does seem to be clear that some of them were still being run solely by women. House masters did exist, but did not become fully established until slightly later in the nineteenth century. It suited my purpose for the young Van Daan to live under a more relaxed regime so I’ve placed him in Dame Lovelace’s Boarding House.

I hope you enjoy this latest adventure in Paul van Daan’s early life. I loved writing it and was surprised at the end to realise that, with one exception, Paul’s appalling language really hadn’t developed at this point. You could almost let your children read this one. It was definitely written for fun. Enjoy.

Eton Mess

Eton College, October 1795

Mr Julian Holland was correcting Latin grammar in the Masters’ common-room when the sounds of battle reached him. He tried to ignore it. Five years living in the midst of three hundred active boys had taught him the madness of intervening in every minor squabble. Often the combats proved to be nothing more than the kind of noisy play fight you might expect from a litter of growing puppies.

After a few minutes, Julian put down his pen and listened harder. The noise had grown louder and he decided that this was more than general high spirits. There was a savage chanting which suggested a fight of more than usual interest or even worse, a severe beating.

Julian stood up with a sigh, shaking out his gown. He occupied a relatively junior position among the teaching staff at Eton College and it was not really his job to maintain discipline among the boys, unless it  was in his own classes. He was sure that the Headmaster or some of the Assistant Masters were within earshot, but he knew that none of them would make a move to find out what was going on unless somebody made a formal report. Mr Heath had only taken over as Headmaster the previous year and was so far showing every sign of continuing the indifference of his predecessor to the safety and welfare of the boys under his care.

Julian made his way at a gentle run down through the Long Walk. The noise seemed to be coming from the churchyard beyond the chapel which was further away than he had expected. Sound carried well on the chill autumn air and, as Julian rounded the end of the chapel, he could see them: a group of boys in a wide semi-circle close to the red brick wall and the old well on the far side of the churchyard. Their cheers and yells of encouragement drowned out any sound of his approach across the damp, leaf strewn grass between the gravestones.

As he drew close, Julian could see that his instinct had not betrayed him. Boxing was a popular sport at Eton and many parents paid extra for their sons to be taught properly, though many of the masters considered it a vulgar activity and preferred to encourage the young gentlemen to study the art of fencing. Some of the boys excelled at both.

Coming up to the edge of the group, Julian could see that the current match was uneven. Two boys were at the centre of the ring, one on the ground sporting a bloody face while the other was still on his feet, although he did not look in much better condition. Three older boys surrounded them, aiming kicks and blows where they could, with no consideration for the traditions of boxing or for any kind of gentlemanly conduct.

Julian knew all the boys under his tuition and was aware that these older boys were all approaching the end of their time at Eton. In the case of the Honourable Cecil Welby, who was eighteen and undoubtedly the ringleader in this systematic battering of younger boys, Julian could not wait for him to go. Welby was destined for a commission in a regiment of Hussars and Julian hoped passionately that the young officer would be ruthlessly bullied by his new messmates to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Welby and his friends had clearly not had it all their own way on this occasion. Ned Carrington’s nose was almost as bloody as his younger opponent’s and he was clearly distracted by his need to mop it occasionally on the sleeve of his coat. Barney Fletcher, the third combatant had what looked like the beginnings of a black eye and Welby himself sported a badly split lip. He was moving in on the younger boy now, his expression murderous.

“Carrington, Fletcher, get hold of his arms. Hold him still, he’s like a bloody gnat.”

As if to prove a point, the boy dodged back as the two converged on him, twisting sideways to avoid Fletcher’s grasping hands. Carrington managed to get a hold on his other side but let go with a yell as the boy turned into him and lifted a knee towards his groin. The blow missed however and the boy was off balance, giving Welby the opportunity to charge into him, knocking him flat.

All three of the older boys moved in, using their feet. Julian gave a shout of anger as all three connected with different parts of the boy’s body. He elbowed his way through the crowd which parted immediately. The atavistic roars of encouragement had died away. Partly Julian thought it was due to the arrival of a master but he also thought they had sensed the moment when an uneven mill turned into something savage and more dangerous.

“Welby, Carrington, Fletcher, get away from him,” Julian bellowed. “This is not the first time I’ve had to speak to you about bullying the younger boys, but you’ve gone too far this time. I’ll be speaking to the Headmaster and I also intend to write to your fathers personally.”

Welby did not speak but Carrington lifted his voice in immediate protest.

“That’s not fair, sir, he started it. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Just giving young Galloway a bit of a reminder of his duties. He’s Welby’s fag you know and he’s been altogether too choosy about what he will and won’t do. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Julian, who could remember the sheer misery of his own school days fagging for a bullying senior, wanted to point out that there was a lot wrong with it but he knew he would lose the argument. Fagging, the practice of a younger boy acting as servant to a senior boy in return for his protection was encouraged at most schools. In the hands of a kindly older boy it was harmless enough but in the hands of a bully like Welby it could be intolerable.

“He’s twelve,” Julian said coldly. “It shouldn’t take three of you to explain the rules.”

“It would have been all right if Van Daan hadn’t weighed in,” Welby said. “None of his damned business and I told him so. I hope he’s learned his lesson by it, sir. He needs reminding, the snotty little brat.”

Julian looked down at the leggy, fair-haired fourteen year old on the grass. He had uncurled himself cautiously and was beginning to sit up, wincing a little. Julian waited. He had no idea what was coming but he knew something was and he was poised to intervene. Van Daan rubbed blood from his face and felt around one eye which was beginning to swell. He looked up, giving Julian a glimpse of clear blue eyes, then shifted his gaze to Welby and gave a singularly charming smile.

“Every time you get close enough, Welby, I’m reminded of the smell of dog shit on a hot day. It’s the strangest thing; I always stop to check my shoe and then I realise it’s just you wandering past.”

Welby made an inarticulate sound and moved forward. Julian stepped in front of him, trying to look authoritative and Van Daan scrambled to his feet and stood ready to continue the fight. Julian looked over his shoulder.

“Van Daan, get Galloway up then get him over to the house and cleaned up. I will meet you in the Dame’s kitchen in one hour and if you open your mouth again, I’ll be reporting you. Get moving.”

The boy hesitated, then turned to where Galloway had dragged himself into a sitting position. The sight of the younger boy seemed to remind him of why he had become involved in the first place and he abandoned his fighting stance and went to help the other boy up.

“Come on Galloway, up you get. Dame Lovelace is going to have a fit when she sees the state of you. Make sure you tell her straight away that I didn’t do it or I’ll get my ears boxed on top of everything else.”

Julian watched them limp away. Galloway was leaning heavily on his companion although Julian was not sure which of the two was more seriously injured. He had seen Van Daan flinch as he moved, putting a hand to his ribs. He hoped that Mrs Lovelace, the Dame who ran the Boarding House to which both Van Daan and Galloway belonged, would be able to see through Van Daan’s bravado and get a doctor to have a look at him if necessary.

When the boys had disappeared through the gate Julian turned to look at Welby. The boy wore an expression of studied insolence.

“I don’t think the Headmaster will want to get involved, sir,” he said. “My uncle by marriage is on the Board, you know and none of them will want to interfere with me disciplining my fag. And Van Daan attacked me.”

Julian allowed his eyes to dwell on Welby’s battered face. “I can see he did,” he said. “If I were you, Welby, I wouldn’t want the rest of the school to know that the three of you were bested by a fourteen-year-old. All I can say it that it’s a good thing you didn’t get involved in a fencing bout with him.”

Welby’s face flushed scarlet and Julian gave a sympathetic smile. “Oh I’m sorry. I forgot that you did, last term. Lost half a year’s allowance betting on yourself, didn’t you?”

“If we all had the money he has to waste on fencing and boxing lessons, sir…”

“Enough. I’m not interested. I suggest for your sake that you keep this quiet. Leave Van Daan alone. You’ve only got a couple of months left here, Welby – you go at Christmas don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. To take up my commission.”

“Good. I won’t bother to write to your father, I’m well aware he doesn’t give a damn how you conduct yourself. But if I have to speak to you again about beating the younger boys, I’m going to write to your future commanding officer suggesting he keep an eye on you and explaining why. In the army you’ll be expected to behave like a gentleman. It won’t be a good start if your Colonel knows you’ve a history of not knowing how.”

Julian did not bother to say any more. He knew that Welby was perfectly right. Discipline at Eton was left largely in the hands of the older boys and unless something went badly wrong, it was unlikely that either the Headmaster or the Provost would intervene. He hoped that his threat might make Welby think twice before attempting to exact further revenge on either of the younger boys.

Julian went back to collect his marking then made his way along South Meadow Lane to the big house where Mrs Eleanor Lovelace presided over Whitchurch House, home to twenty boys ranging from the age of ten to eighteen. Julian’s own lodgings were in a narrow lane nearby and although it was not part of his formal duties to oversee the Whitchurch boys, he was on good terms with Dame Lovelace who frequently invited him to supper and often consulted him about the welfare of the boys under her care.

He found the Dame in the big square kitchen, tending to Tobias Galloway’s battered face. Washed clean of blood, it did not look too bad although there was a bruise on his temple and another darkening the fair skin of his jawline. The blood seemed to have come from a split lip. Julian came forward to inspect him and nodded.

“You’ll do, Galloway. You’ve done a good job, ma’am. All the same, I was wondering if you thought it might be an idea to write to Mrs Galloway to suggest that young Tobias goes home for a month or two for Christmas. It might do him some good.”

“He’s due to go home anyway, sir, his father has furlough from the army. I agree it might be wise to bring that forward a little, I’ll write to them this evening to suggest it. By the time he comes back after Christmas the problem should have solved itself.”

“You mean Welby will have gone.”

“Yes, and I won’t miss him. Horrible boy, he’s the worst senior I’ve ever had in the house.”

“Oh I don’t know, ma’am. Whitchurch House won’t be the same without the Honourable Cecil,” a voice said from the doorway. “He should be an asset if he gets to fight the French though. One look at that ugly face and they’ll run a mile. Thank you for intervening, Mr Holland. I know it’s not really your job.”

Julian turned to survey Paul van Daan. He had taken the time to clean himself up and change his muddy clothing but his face, as Julian had suspected, was more battered than Galloway’s. One eye was swollen and bruised, there was a nasty cut on his left cheek and another on his lip. A swelling lump and a gash on his temple made Julian wonder if that was where one of the kicks had connected.

“Look at the state of you,” Mrs Lovelace scolded. “Come and sit down and let me look at those cuts. You look like a low prize fighter. Your poor mother would turn in her grave if she could see you now, Master van Daan.”

“I don’t suppose she would, ma’am. She was used to me.”

Dame Lovelace shooed him into a wooden chair and went for a cold compress and some sticking plaster.

“Well you’ve lived under this roof for two years and I’m still not used to you,” she said. “You should know better, you know what a spiteful beast that boy is.”

“I know that once he starts hitting people he can’t stop,” Van Daan said, his eyes straying to Galloway’s white face. “It’s a pity he always has his friends with him. I wouldn’t bet on his chances if I could get him on his own for ten minutes.”

Julian watched as Dame Lovelace applied a plaster to the cut on the boy’s temple. “He’s four years older and a head taller, Van Daan,” he said gently. “This is not the first time this has happened. When are you going to learn not to get into fights with the seniors?”

“When the seniors stop picking on my friends.”

Julian opened his mouth to remonstrate and then closed it again. It was not the first time he had tried to have this conversation with Paul van Daan. Generally speaking, after the first few rounds with an older boy establishing his superior position in the school hierarchy, most younger boys either fell into line and waited for their own turn at the top, or persuaded their parents to continue their education at home. Van Daan, on the other hand, seemed to be making a single-handed attempt to change the entire system. It had not gone well for him today.

The Van Daan boy had not stood out when he arrived at Eton two years earlier. The gossip in the masters common-room was that he was the younger son of a wealthy Dutch businessman who had married into the English aristocracy. The boy’s mother and sister had died of smallpox and Julian remembered him on arrival as a tall slender twelve year old who looked faintly lost in the echoing halls of the old college.

The first weeks after Van Daan’s arrival had been marked with the usual scuffles and jockeying for position within his peer group, but Julian thought the boy settled well. He seemed well-liked by the other boys and tolerated by most of the masters. His father was wealthy enough to pay handsomely for his sports and social education and Van Daan quickly developed a reputation for being a talented boxer, a brilliant fencer and a good but unenthusiastic cricketer. He was also much in demand for football games where his height and fearlessness made him a favourite pick of the team captains.

His academic studies were less remarkable but Julian, who taught him Latin and geometry, quickly decided that it had nothing to do with his intelligence which was razor sharp. Van Daan’s studies were erratic. If something caught his interest he would devote hours of concentration to mastering it. He went through various enthusiasms for astronomy, Roman military history and learning to play the violin and he proved very able to stick to a subject. When he was bored however, he was an appallingly disruptive pupil with the ability to reduce a class to giggling inattention within minutes.

Julian, who enjoyed teaching and rather liked his pupils, found his ingenuity stretched to keep Van Daan busy and interested and thanked God he was not obliged to teach him Greek. The boy had been taught the basics at home by his previous tutor but showed no interest in taking it further and quickly declared silent war against Mr Archibald Thornton, the thin faced, irritable Greek master. Thornton was quick to lose his temper and enthusiastic in the use of the cane. By the end of his first year, Van Daan had developed a grim tolerance for physical punishment but never managed to look particularly repentant.

Dame Lovelace was pouring hot milk into a cup and adding a dash of brandy. “Off to bed with you, Master Galloway. We’ll see how you are in the morning, but I don’t think you should attend the classroom tomorrow. You look all in, you’ll be better for a good sleep.”

She shepherded the younger boy out of the kitchen. Julian sat down on the bench opposite Van Daan. “What happened?” he asked.

“I wish I knew, sir. Galloway made some kind of dust up about something Welby wanted him to do. I wasn’t there at the start, but when I came upon them, that arsehole and his tame monkeys were threatening to throw him down the old well. He was terrified.” Van Daan’s remarkable blue eyes met Julian’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I know I promised last time, but I couldn’t walk away.”

“I told you to come to me.”

“There wasn’t time, sir. What if they’d really done it? I couldn’t be sure.”

“And what if I’d not come along, Van Daan, and they’d thrown you down that well?”

“I suppose I’d be dead.

Julian sighed. “You can’t leave things alone, can you boy?”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t know what set them off? It’s not like Galloway to argue with his seniors.”

“No, it’s got me in a puzzle as well. I’ll find out though. Or at least, I’ll get Will Cathcart to do it for me. Galloway will tell him.”

Julian could not help smiling. Cathcart had been an early victim of Welby’s bullying when he had arrived at the school. How Van Daan had managed to get the younger boy’s fagging duties switched to his own good natured senior, Julian had never found out but the two boys had been inseparable ever since. Cathcart was due to leave school very soon to take up a berth in the Royal Navy and Julian wondered if Van Daan’s sudden championship of Galloway had anything to do with him looking for a replacement. He rather hoped so. Galloway had struggled ever since his arrival and Van Daan’s bracing  cheerfulness would do him a great deal of good.

Julian sighed. “All right. I’ll leave him to you, Van Daan. Come and speak to me if it’s anything I should know about. I’ve done my best to warn off Welby, so try not to antagonise him for a few weeks, will you? He’s not here for much longer.”

“And then he’ll be off to bully his men in the cavalry, I suppose.”

“That is not going to be your problem, Van Daan.”

The boy gave him a look which informed Julian that he disagreed. Julian lifted his brows and glared back. After a long moment, Van Daan said grudgingly:

“All right, sir.”

Julian considered asking for his word and decided against it. He got up.

“I have marking to finish, you exasperating young whelp. Try and keep out of trouble until class tomorrow, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps it might be best if you take a day off as well…”

“No, sir. This isn’t bad. I’ll be there. Have you marked my work?”

Julian studied him. “Not yet. Why, will I need to borrow some of Dame Lovelace’s brandy first?”

“You might, sir. I think,” Van Daan said modestly, “that I did quite a good job of it.”

Julian could not prevent a laugh. “Eat your supper and get to bed early, Van Daan. You’re going to have the worst headache tomorrow.”

“It’s already started, sir.”

“Well listen to Dame Lovelace. She’s a good woman and she adores you. She’ll know what to do. Good night.”

***

 There were two shared dormitories in Dame Lovelace’s boarding house plus three separate rooms for the senior boys. Two of them belonged to Cecil Welby and Ned Carrington, although neither appeared to have come home yet tonight. The other was occupied by Dominic Netherton, the third son of an Earl, an elegant youth rather incongruously destined for Cambridge and then the church and a family living in Hertfordshire. Paul van Daan shared nominal fagging duties for Netherton with his friend Cathcart. Netherton was a good natured and undemanding boy of eighteen whose only real requirement was money. He had discovered early on Paul’s talent for both fencing and boxing and had reaped a rich reward in organising competitions and running betting services on the outcome. In return he exercised a casual protection over the two younger boys and troubled them very little.

Paul had just finished his supper and was drinking brandy and milk under the eagle eye of Dame Lovelace when Netherton appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, casting a disapproving eye over the scene.

“I’ve just been hearing about your set-to with Welby, Van Daan.”

“Sorry, Netherton.”

“You’re a damned nuisance. He’s been complaining to me and saying you should be flogged.”

“It would be superfluous,” Paul said, indicating his battered face. Netherton studied him and sighed.

“All right. Keep out of his way until your match against Beeston on Thursday. I’ve got this month’s allowance on it: I can’t afford to lose. Are we clear?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine, it’s nothing serious.”

“Good. Is Galloway all right?”

“I think so. I’m going up to check on him now.” Paul hesitated. “Look, Netherton. I was wondering…you’re going to lose Cathcart next term, he’s off to the Navy. While you’re still here, maybe you could take over Galloway after Welby leaves? He’s a good lad and he’ll be grateful.”

Netherton glared at him. “Welby will want one of his friends to take him over.”

“You’ve no reason to worry about those two, they’re nothing without him. They won’t make a murmur.”

Netherton studied him for a while then sighed. “All right. I’ll speak to Galloway after Christmas. You’re such a pain in the backside, Van Daan.”

“I know I am. Sorry.”

“No you’re bloody not. Get up there and find out if he’s all right, poor little runt. If he’s worried, let me know and I’ll see if I can warn off Welby.”

“Thank you, Netherton. You’re a good sort.”

“I am a bloody pushover and you know it, you little bastard.”

Paul grinned and removed himself to the dormitory. There were eight beds but only five were occupied. Admissions to Eton had been low for several years, although they were currently slightly improved, possibly due to the change in Headmaster.

It was early for the boys to be in bed and Galloway was the only one tucked up in his narrow cot. On the bed next to him was the slim figure of William Cathcart, Paul’s closest friend at school. Cathcart was thirteen, almost a year younger than Paul and the eldest son of Lord Cathcart, a Scottish Peer. Cathcart had suffered at the hands of Welby and his cronies during his first term at school but had made a remarkably good recovery. He was due to leave in the summer to join the Royal Navy as a volunteer aboard HMS Melpomene with the Channel fleet and Paul knew he was going to miss him.

Paul closed the badly fitting door and joined Cathcart on his bunk. Galloway was sitting up, finishing the milk and brandy. He was very pale and looked completely exhausted. Paul studied him for a moment.

“Are you going to tell us what happened, Galloway?”

“I don’t much want to talk about it.”

“I understand that,” Cathcart said. “But we’re your friends, you know, we want to help. And it’s not like you to get into trouble with Welby. Normally you just…”

He stopped abruptly and Paul managed not to laugh. “Normally you’ve got more sense than me and just go with the tide,” he said tactfully.

“Normally I just do what he tells me to do.”

“Well, yes,” Cathcart said. “And it’s the intelligent thing to do, we all know it.” He shot a glance at Paul. “Well, most of us do. What went wrong this time?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Cathcart frowned suddenly. “Or at least, I suppose it could be, but I didn’t think Welby was like that. I mean I’ve never heard…”

He broke off, studying the younger boy with concern. Galloway flushed scarlet as he appeared to catch his meaning and shook his head, setting down the cup on the wooden floor.

“No! Nothing like that.”

“Are you sure?” Paul said. He had heard vague stories of one or two of the older boys requiring more than domestic services from their fags, although as far as he knew it had not happened during his time at the school. Gossip travelled quickly at Eton and Paul thought he would have known if Cecil Welby had abused any of the younger boys in that particular way.

“No, I swear it. Just the usual stuff, running errands, cleaning his room and suchlike. He’s beastly and he’ll give his boys a box around the ear if we’re not quick enough, but nothing worse until today.”

“So what did he want from you today, Galloway? Is he after money? He spent a couple of months trying to extort what he could from me once he realised my brother sends me a guinea under the seal of every letter. Come on, spill it. We can’t help you if we don’t understand.”

“It’s a secret.”

“We won’t tell,” Cathcart promised. “I’ll give you my oath.”

Galloway was silent for a moment and Paul could see that he was torn between wanting to share and his ability to trust.

“I promise, Toby,” he said gently. “What does that bastard want?”

Galloway took a deep breath. “He wants my dog,” he said.

***

 The bitch was part-spaniel, five months old and very playful. She was housed in the stable attached to the George Inn under the care of a skinny stable-hand who was being paid to look after her.

Paul sat in a pile of straw with the puppy on his lap licking his face while Galloway told the story. He had heard about the puppies from one of the grooms in the college stables and had been longing for a dog since losing his elderly hound the previous year. Unusually wealthy due to a generous birthday gift from his uncle, he had bought her and found a temporary foster home in one of the staff cottages with a gardener.

“It’s only until Christmas. My father is coming to collect me to take me home. He’s on furlough for three months before going off to India and he wants to spend the time with me. He and my mother have already agreed to me getting another dog, so he’ll be happy to take her. I thought it was an excellent idea all round. I’ve been spending all my free time with her, training her.”

“What’s her name?” Paul asked. The puppy was lying on her back as he scratched her tummy and he was already in love. His mother had adored both dogs and horses and in the horrible weeks after her death Paul could remember going to sleep each night with her favourite spaniel curled up in his arms for comfort. The memory hurt but also made him smile.

“India. I called her that because I’d just heard about Papa’s posting. It was all going so well until Welby found out. He told me I wasn’t allowed a dog in college and that if I didn’t give her to him, he’d tell the Headmaster and she’d be taken away. When I told him to get lost, he threatened to drown her. He’d found out that old Jones was looking after her for me and I knew if he went after the poor old fellow he’d have to hand her over.”

“Where did you come up with this place?”

“My parents always put up at the George if they come up to visit for any reason. I’ve known some of the lads here for years. It’s expensive, it’s costing me every penny of my allowance, but it’s only for another few weeks. As long as I can keep her hidden from Welby, we’ll be fine. But he worked out that I’d moved her and was trying to get me to tell him where. I didn’t tell him.”

Paul was twisting some straw into a makeshift ball. He tossed it across the stall and laughed as the puppy bounded after it. “She’s gorgeous. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about her, Galloway, you little idiot. Far easier to look after her with three of us and if you run out of money I can help.”

Galloway gave a slightly tremulous smile. “I should have told you. I can’t take your money though, Van Daan.”

“Yes, you can. I’ve nothing useful to spend it on and I’ll take puppy cuddles in payment. I miss the dogs at home. My mother used to have a spaniel who looked rather like this. India, come here. You’re supposed to fetch the ball not eat it, you’ll be sick.”

“Are you sure Welby doesn’t know about this place?” Cathcart asked.

“As sure as I can be, but I’m terrified he’ll find out.”

“We need to get rid of Welby,” Paul said, stroking the spaniel’s ears. “He’s going anyway at Christmas, if we could just find a way to get him sent down sooner you’d have nothing to worry about. I can’t believe he’s not managed to get himself expelled before now.”

Galloway snorted. “The Headmaster doesn’t see thrashing the junior boys as a problem.”

“No. What would he see as a problem?”

“Theft? Murder? Seducing the Provost’s daughter?” Cathcart said.

“I’m not sure we can set him up for any of those,” Paul said regretfully. “Not without causing serious harm to somebody else.”

“I was joking, Van Daan.”

“So was I. At least…I think I was.” Paul stopped stroking India’s silky ears. He was staring into the distance as an idea began to form in his brain. After a moment the puppy grew bored and began to nibble at his jacket. Paul took no notice. The idea was taking shape, forming into something like a plan. It was possible. It could work. It could…

Paul caught sight of the faces of his two friends. They wore identical expressions of sheer horror and he laughed aloud.

“Your faces.”

“No,” Cathcart said firmly. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. I’ve come to know that expression. I have approximately six months left at this school and I’ve no wish to be kicked out before then because I followed you in some mad scheme to get back at Welby.”

“You’re going to love it.”

“I’m going to hate it.”

“You’re not. It’s not illegal and it won’t hurt anybody. At the very least he’ll end up looking like a complete idiot and if we’re really lucky they’ll send him down early for being out after curfew and for causing a dust-up with the townspeople. Don’t be such a boring toad, Cathcart. Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

Paul looked at Galloway. “I don’t trust you either, Van Daan,” the younger boy said earnestly. “But…will it keep him away from India?”

“He is going to be far too busy to even think about India. Though if he does come anywhere near her, I’m going to drown the ugly bastard in the Thames, I promise you.”

Galloway gave a broad smile. “I think you would, too.”

“I definitely would. But I’m not going to need to. What’s the date?”

“The date?” Galloway looked baffled. “It’s the twenty-sixth of October.”

“Exactly,” Paul said rather smugly. “Which gives us five days to plan this.”

Cathcart gave a puzzled frown. “You’re not thinking of doing something on Mischief Night are you? The Head said only the other day that he’d expel any boy caught playing tricks on the townies this year. I don’t think even Welby would be stupid enough.”

Paul shook his head regretfully. “No, we’d never get away with it. After Grantham set fire to that barn last year and nearly burned down Selby Street they’re going to have us firmly locked up on the thirtieth. I’m thinking of All Hallows Eve.”

Both his friends stared at him blankly. Eventually, Cathcart said:

“What in God’s name is going to happen to Welby on All Hallows Eve, Van Daan? Apart from a ducking if he’s bobbing for apples, that is?”

Paul gave a broad smile. “We’re going to persuade him to go ghost hunting,” he said happily.

***

The telling of ghost stories was a time-honoured tradition at Eton and Julian rather imagined at most other boys’ schools. He remembered from his own time, both at Eton and Cambridge, cold winter evenings toasting bread by the fireside and competing to tell the most ghoulish tales.

There were currently fourteen boys in residence at Dame Lovelace’s boarding house and all but the two youngest were scattered around the boys’ parlour when Julian arrived to supervise the residents during Mischief Night. The practice of playing tricks and pranks on the neighbourhood on the evening of the thirtieth of October varied greatly around the country and Julian had never heard of it in his own county of Surrey, but he had discovered it was very well established in the town of Windsor.

Until recently the Headmaster had mostly ignored the escapades of some of the wilder elements in College. They tended to consist of racing through the darkened streets banging on doors or taking buckets of dung from the stable heap to leave on the doorsteps of unwary citizens. It was exasperating but harmless and the town boys were just as enthusiastic as the College boys.

Over the past few years however, the pranks had been escalating. Competition between the town youths and the boys from College had raised the stakes to the point where the pranks were becoming either expensive or dangerous. One year some of the Thames boatmen were furious to discover most of their barges had been sunk during the night, while a farmer on the outskirts of the town had lost two cows to drowning when every gate on his farm had been opened. There were angry local meetings where the townspeople blamed the college and the College pointed to the town.

On the previous year, the most imaginative prank and Julian’s personal favourite, was when Mr Calverley, a local solicitor who had been particularly vocal on the subject of the College boys and had even gone so far as to take his walking cane to two of the juniors he suspected of stealing eggs from his poultry yard, arose to find his hen house completely enmeshed in a cage of string. Julian had been tasked with enquiring into the matter and he had been baffled at how difficult it was to release the squawking hens until he realised that once the string was in place it had been thickly painted with glue, which had set very well during the cold night. It took the lawyer and his servant almost an hour to chip and cut the string away and when the indignant hens sallied forth, every one of them was painted a bright shade of green.

Green hens were outrageous but more or less harmless, however somebody had gone further and set fire to a partly derelict barn at the end of Selby Street. The fire had looked likely to spread and though the residents had managed to put it out, helped by a fortuitous shower of rain, two College boys had apparently been seen in the vicinity and the Headmaster declared that Mischief Night was over for the scholars of Eton College. Orders had been given and threats made, but on the night itself, the Headmaster allocated each one of the Assistant Masters to a Boarding House where they were to check if any of the students were missing and keep an eye out for anybody trying to abscond.

Julian had been ready for a sulky response from the three senior boys who were used to a good deal of freedom in their spare time. To his surprise he found Netherton, Welby and Carrington happily consuming buttered toast and hot chocolate with their juniors while the Honourable Martin Wynne-Jones told a gruesome tale about a headless horseman. Julian bowed politely to Dame Lovelace, who was settled in an armchair with some knitting, and took a chair in the corner.

There was silence as Wynne-Jones finished his story. After a moment, Paul van Daan gave an exaggerated shudder.

“That was excellent, Jonesy. It’s a good thing I can’t imagine your horseman making it up those stairs or I’d struggle to sleep tonight.”

“Your turn, Van Daan,” Netherton said lazily. “Don’t you have any grisly tales for us?”

“I’m sure there’s one my brother told me about a ghostly hunt, but I can’t for the life of me remember it,” Van Daan said regretfully. “It’s a shame because he scared the life out of me for a month afterwards, I used to lie awake listening for the phantom hunting horn. My mother was furious with him. What about you, Welby? Anything from Dorset?”

It was said casually but Julian thought he recognised an olive branch and was surprised and a little touched. He half expected Welby to reject it scornfully but the older boy could not resist the opportunity to take the stage. His story involved a ghostly sea captain and was not as well told as Wynne-Jones’ but the boys seemed to enjoy it and it rather pleased Julian to see what appeared to be a cautious truce.

He looked again at Van Daan who was sprawled on a shabby rag rug on the floor and wondered if the boy was yet aware of what a gift he had for leadership. The casual charm seemed effortless even at fourteen and Julian hoped he would find the right outlet for his undoubted talents as he grew older. He had told Julian that his father wanted him to go into the law but Julian could not imagine that restless energy confined behind a desk and certainly did not see Paul van Daan as a clergyman. The army and the navy were both traditional careers for a younger son and might well suit him better.

Several more stories were told and Julian, called upon to contribute, told them about the ghost of Anne Boleyn who was supposed to haunt the Tower of London. He could see that the younger boys were getting sleepy. Dame Lovelace had observed it too and was folding her knitting in preparation to sending them up to bed. Paul van Daan looked over at her and gave her a winning smile.

“One more, ma’am. We’ve been on a ghostly tour around Britain tonight, but we’ve had nothing local. Aren’t there any gruesome tales about the College? Or even the town? You must know, surely.”

The Dame sniffed. “I’ve better things to do than listen to ghost stories, Master van Daan. Not that my father didn’t tell me about some strange noises in the college library when he was caretaker here forty years ago, but he told me he never actually saw anything…”

“What did he hear, ma’am?”

Dame Lovelace settled herself back in her chair and Julian watched, hiding a smile. At this rate it would be midnight before the boys were in bed but he was enjoying the unusually mellow atmosphere. Dame Lovelace told a surprisingly effective story of her father.

“That gave me the chills,” Cathcart said appreciatively when she had finished. “It’s almost worse imagining what he might have seen than actually seeing the ghost. Reminds me of that story about the boathouse.”

“What story?” Van Daan asked.

“You know, the one the boatman told us when we took shelter there from the rain. At least…weren’t you there, Van Daan? Maybe it was just me and Galloway.”

“I don’t remember it,” Van Daan said, sitting up from his prone position. “Tell us immediately. And after that, I’m going to bed. It’s been a good Mischief Night and the town can sleep safely, though I’m not sure I will after this. What’s the story of the boathouse?”

“Apparently it’s haunted. Old Peterson reckons he’s seen her.”

“Seen who?” Netherton said, intrigued. The sleepy boys seemed to have woken up at the mention of the boathouse, which was regularly used by the College boys. “Tell us about it, Cathcart. That’s very close to home; I’m in and out of there all the time. I can’t believe you’ve left this to the very end.”

“And that will have to be the end,” Dame Lovelace said firmly. “You’ll all be sleeping through lessons tomorrow.”

“It was this time of year, according to Peterson,” Cathcart said. “She was quite young, the daughter of some local tradesman and she got involved with someone at the College. Peterson couldn’t say if it was a senior boy or a master…”

“This does not sound like a suitable story for young ears,” Dame Lovelace said in repressive tones.

“No, no ma’am, of course. Like I say, I don’t know the details but whatever happened it went wrong for her. I daresay he dropped her or left College or some such thing but she couldn’t get over it. People used to see her wandering along the river bank where they used to meet, crying. One day she didn’t come home at all and it was pouring with rain. Her father went out to look for her but there was no sign along the river pathway. He was beginning to worry she’d missed her footing and slipped into the river so he made his way to the boathouse to see if any of the boat men were there and had seen her. The place was in darkness but the door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and saw her there. She was hanging from the rafters, swaying gently.”

“That’s an appalling story,” Julian said, watching the faces of some of the younger boys. “And quite enough for tonight.”

“It’s not a ghost story though,” Van Daan argued. “Or is it, Cathcart?”

“According to Peterson she’s still seen along that path just as dusk is falling. People have heard her crying as well – inside the boathouse, though when they open the door there’s nothing there. Although one night – perhaps it was the anniversary, we don’t know – one of the boat men saw her in the shed: just her outline hanging there.”

“Oh that is definitely enough,” Van Daan said, getting up. “If anybody in our dorm wakes up yelling in the night, Cathcart, it’s your fault. And it might well be me. I’m off to bed. Goodnight, ma’am. Thank you for a very good Mischief Night, I think I enjoyed it more than last year. And you too, Mr Holland. You can report back that we were all present and correct and behaved ourselves very well. We’ll be staying home tomorrow as well, I swear it. After that little performance, I’d happily stake two guineas that even Netherton and Welby wouldn’t have the nerve to be wandering along the river on All Hallows Eve. Goodnight all.”

Julian watched him go, followed by his friends, their feet clattering on the bare wooden stairs. He agreed that the evening had been a success and that the boys appeared to have behaved impeccably, so he could not understand why he had the wholly irrational feeling that Paul van Daan had in fact just behaved very badly indeed.

***

Paul fell asleep quickly and was awoken by Cathcart bouncing on the end of his bed. He managed to stifle a squawk, sat up and smacked his friend across the ear.

“What was that for?” the younger boy whispered indignantly.

“For scaring the shit out of me in the middle of the night after three hours of ghost stories,” Paul hissed. “Outside before we wake up the whole house.”

Cathcart followed him onto the dark landing. It was very cold and Paul shivered.

“Make it quick, my teeth are chattering. Did he bite?”

“He bit,” Cathcart said with great satisfaction. “The bet stands at two guineas that he’ll parade along the river path alone at dusk on All Hallows Eve, then stay in the boatshed until midnight. Carrington volunteered to stand as guarantor that he goes through with it but I pointed out that he wouldn’t be alone then so the bet wouldn’t hold good. I’ve told him you’re giving a shilling to Peterson to watch from that cottage of his to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak out of there.”

“Very good idea. Am I in fact giving a shilling to Peterson?”

“Yes. Which he’ll be spending at the King’s Head, happily not looking in the direction of the boat shed.”

“Better and better. I’ll get down there directly after my Greek class to set everything up. I hope I can manage to stay awake through the deathly boredom of old Thornton droning on. He’s not caned me for months, he must be getting a bit twitchy by now. Come on, let’s get back to bed before the Dame catches us. Or before we freeze to death and start haunting the place ourselves.”

Despite his disturbed night, Paul managed to get through both Greek and Latin without incident the following day and was even faintly smug when Mr Holland praised his recent translation. He regretfully turned down an invitation to play football during the afternoon and slipped away about his own affairs, although he made sure that he was back in plenty of time for dinner and joined in with the conversation about the football match as though he had been present.

Welby was quiet during dinner and Paul wondered if he was regretting his rash acceptance of the bet. When the table was cleared, the boys collected their books for the study period and for an hour and a half the big schoolroom at the back of the house was silent, broken only by the rustling of paper, the scratching of pens and an occasional deep sigh.

Dame Lovelace rang the bell which signalled the end of formal study and the boys broke up into informal groupings. In some Houses there was still a great deal of supervision during the evening but Dame Lovelace was known to be lenient, particularly with the older boys. It was not uncommon for the seniors to slip out to meet friends from other Houses in one of the local taverns and providing they returned by eleven o’clock and did not wake the house up because they were drunk, she would turn a blind eye.

During the summer months she would also allow some of the older juniors to go down to the river to swim or to row, or to the field to play games. Tonight it was already growing dark and Paul was pleased to see that Welby had vanished, although Netherton was still there, setting out a draughts board. Paul joined him.

“Netherton, can you cover for me? I want to go up to the hall to practice for an hour, I’ve got two fights next week and I’m feeling sluggish after my skirmish with Welby. I need to get myself moving again.”

Netherton shot him a glance. “Do so,” he said firmly. “I thought Beeston had you beaten, I’ve never seen you so slow. Welby has gone off somewhere, something to do with a wager. I hope he bloody loses, whatever it is. I’ll tell the Dame I sent you on an errand. Take a lantern though, it’ll be pitch black coming over the field in the dark and I don’t want you spraining your ankle. I’ve got a huge bet on you against Wolverton and there’s a big take up on the betting book as well. I need you to win.”

Paul grinned. “I can beat Wolverton with one hand,” he said. “Thank you. I won’t be more than an hour or so.”

“She won’t check the dorms, she never does. If you’re late back I’ll tell her you’ve gone to bed and I’ll make sure the side door is unlocked. See you later.”

Paul collected a closed lantern from the kitchen and slipped out through the side door. He was halfway across the field when he heard footsteps and stopped, waiting.

“Van Daan, is that you?”

“Yes. What the bloody hell are you doing here, Cathcart? If we get caught it will be six of the best at the very least. And you should never have brought Galloway. It’s all right for me…”

“Shut up and get moving or we’ll miss the fun. I’m reliably informed by Carrington that Welby went first to the Queen’s Head for refreshment. If we cut across by Peterson’s Cottage we should get there in plenty of time. I had a look earlier and there’s a place behind those three oaks which gives an excellent view of the boathouse door.”

Paul held up the lantern and began to walk faster. “I wish I could see his face when he opens that door,” he said wistfully. “But watching him run will be a lot of fun. I was trying to think of a way of getting him into trouble for being out after hours, but it won’t wash. Firstly because we’re all out as well. But also, it will come home to Dame Lovelace and she’s a good sort. I’d hate for her to lose her post because she doesn’t sit on us all the time. Still, it will scare the life out of Welby and as long as we see him run, Peterson is happy to confirm that he did too.”

“And how much did that cost you?” Cathcart said cynically. Paul laughed.

“Whatever it cost me, it was worth it. Did you hear back from your father, Galloway?”

“Yes, I got a letter this morning. He’s coming down to collect me himself; he’s probably on the road by now. And he’s very pleased about India. I knew he would be.”

“Lucky little bastard. I wish I was going home early for Christmas,” Paul said dispassionately. “Or maybe I don’t. My father is never especially pleased to see me. I miss Joshua though, and my dogs and horses. And Carl.”

“The parson’s son?”

“Yes. We’ve been friends since…oh forever. I wish you could meet him, you’d like him. Look, it’s grown misty over the river. Gives a nice atmosphere. This way, we can cut through the trees.”

They were barely in position when Paul heard footsteps approaching along the footpath. They seemed erratic and at first Paul did not think it was Welby at all, but as a lantern similar to the one he had recently doused came into wavering view through the swirling mist, he could see the older boy’s face. Welby looked satisfyingly nervous, glancing around frequently as though expecting to see a ghostly form emerging from the mist.

The weather was a bonus for Paul’s plan, since it virtually guaranteed that nobody else would be taking a night time stroll along the river. He watched Welby approach the big wooden structure of the boathouse and wondered suddenly if he was slightly drunk.

At the door, Welby hesitated, lifting his lantern. Paul hoped that Peterson had followed instructions and left the shed unlocked. Welby looked around him again and Paul could almost see him wondering if he could get away with sneaking off after his evening walk and not spending the next few hours in the dark boathouse. Paul could have reassured him that he was not likely to be there for long.

After several minutes, Welby stepped forward and took hold of the latch. Paul could see his figure outlined against the mist. The wooden door creaked slightly as Welby opened it cautiously, adding to the atmosphere. Paul realised he was holding his breath.

Welby screamed.

It was a high-pitched sound of sheer terror and it told Paul all he wanted to know about how well his plan had worked. Welby must have bolstered his failing courage in the tavern but the drink would only have made the shock worse. There was a scrabbling and a clatter and then the light from the lantern was abruptly extinguished, presumably because Welby had dropped it.

Paul waited, listening. He could hear the older boy crashing about down at the path, sobbing in terror. Remembering how frightened Galloway had been the previous week when Paul came across him close to the old well, Paul felt a sense of savage satisfaction. He hoped that Welby remembered this the next time he bullied a terrified boy six years his junior. He also hoped that Welby sprained his ankle racing back up to Dame Lovelace’s House.

There was another scream, then a yell of terror and then an enormous splash. After that, there was only splashing, with an occasional cry. Paul listened for a moment.

“He’s gone into the river,” Galloway said.

Paul waited. The next cry was more of a gurgle. “Of course he’s gone into the river,” he said. “He’s a bloody idiot.”

The three boys remained frozen between the oak trees. The noise continued for a while. Eventually a terrified wail floated up from the darkness.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

“He can’t swim.” Cathcart said.

Paul listened for another moment and realised that his friend was right. The enormity of how badly their plan had gone wrong made him furious.

“Of course he can’t bloody swim!” he roared. “You would just know it. Of all the useless good for nothing dog turds I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet in my short life, the Honourable Cecil Welby is top of the list. His inability to swim is…oh never mind. Galloway, take my tinder box. See if you can get the lantern lit again. Come on, Cathcart, we need to get him out of there.”

He was halfway across the grass towards the river when he heard his friend’s voice. Cathcart sounded apologetic.

“I’m afraid I can’t swim either.”

Paul froze. He realised he had no time to say any of the things he wanted to say and probably did not know enough swear words to express his feelings anyway. He said the first thing that came into his head.

“Oh for God’s sake! You’re about to join the bloody Navy!”

The river was high because of recent rain and freezing cold. Paul stripped off coat and boots and waded in, following the faint sounds of Welby’s voice. It sounded as though the older boy had managed to keep himself afloat but was clearly struggling. Paul struck out strongly in the direction of the sounds and reached Welby just as he went under again.

For several long minutes he struggled with the older boy in the water. Welby was beyond terror and in his panic he fought rescue. He was bigger and stronger than Paul and for a while it felt as though the only course would be to let him go under. Paul hung on grimly, trying to dodge his flailing arms. Eventually sheer exhaustion slowed down Welby’s frantic struggles and he allowed Paul to grasp him around his chest and tow him to the river bank.

Cathcart and Galloway were there with the lantern lit and Paul staggered out and sat down suddenly on the bank. Only now, with Welby safe and vomiting river water onto the grass, did he realise how exhausted he was. He lay back, letting his friends fuss around him and wondered how close he had come to dying in the cold waters of the Thames.

***

It was drizzling steadily over the courtyards and college buildings. Julian had deliberately found reasons to be present as the Headmaster and Mr Thornton presided over the inquiry into the events of All Hallows Eve. As the informal Housemaster of Whitchurch House he felt justified in pushing his way into the process.

Welby had recovered from his near drowning but was curiously subdued through the questioning. He told the story of the bet and his subsequent terror but seemed too embarrassed to dwell on how badly he had been frightened by a white muslin gown hung by ropes from the beams of the boat house. It had been decided, given his unauthorised absence from his Boarding House and the evidence that he had been drinking that evening, that he would leave College immediately and spend the remaining months before he took up his commission at home.

Paul van Daan was alarmingly composed as he related the story of his practical joke on Welby and how he had managed it without assistance. Julian was deeply appreciative of how well he was able to explain every aspect of the plan, even to the fact that he had been given the idea by Cathcart’s innocent retelling of a local ghost story. Julian knew it could not possibly work, since both Galloway and Cathcart had been caught out of their rooms after hours, but he approved of Van Daan’s efforts to excuse his friends.

The Headmaster was quietly furious. Mr Thornton, Julian thought, was slightly triumphant. Sentence was passed for the following morning before the entire school. Julian thought the matter was finished, but it seemed that Van Daan had more to say. As the Headmaster gathered his gown about him, the boy said clearly:

“Headmaster, I’m sorry. You’re right, I deserve the caning. But not these two. Cathcart came out to find out what I was doing and Galloway followed him. Neither of them knew. This isn’t fair.”

The Headmaster paused. “They were both outside beyond curfew, boy. That in itself…”

“Maybe. Two or three strokes. But not ten, that’s too much. This was my fault. I was angry with Welby and I planned the whole thing. They’d nothing to do with it.”

The Headmaster hesitated and Julian held his breath. He wondered if Van Daan might have reached him. Before he could speak however, Thornton cleared his throat loudly.

“Utter nonsense. Cathcart made up the story which led to this whole thing, there was a room full of witnesses. As for the Galloway boy, he is guilty of keeping a dog without permission, Headmaster. I have instructed my senior boys to make enquiries about where the animal is being kept and to arrange for it to be destroyed.”

Van Daan swung around and the expression on his face unexpectedly broke Julian’s heart. He rose and stepped forward.

“I was present on Mischief Night when the boys told their ghost stories, Headmaster, and for what it is worth, I think Van Daan may be telling the truth about the fact that they knew nothing of his plan. Cathcart heard the story from some local boatman and I think that gave Van Daan the idea. With regard to the dog…”

“It is utterly forbidden to keep an animal on school premises,” Thornton said sternly.

“The dog is not being kept on school premises, Headmaster, and I have made my own enquiries,” Julian said easily. “It appears that the animal actually belongs to Colonel Sir Edward Galloway who will be arriving within a day or two to collect it, along with his son. I would not personally wish to explain to him when he arrives that you have beaten his son and had his dog destroyed. It is, of course, up to you.”

There was a long, difficult silence. Eventually the Headmaster said:

“I have no interest in the Colonel’s dog of course. However, his son has clearly broken school rules and endangered another student. The punishment will stand.”

The procedure for corporal punishment at Eton was agonising to watch. Julian had only once been flogged during his time at school and had mostly managed to forget about it. He loathed being reminded.

The boys were led up one by one and bent over a wooden barrel. The cane was applied to their bared backside and the swish and the smack made Julian flinch. He knew how much it hurt and he also knew how humiliating it was.

Both Galloway and Cathcart were crying by the end of their flogging. Van Daan did not. It was not the first time he had endured the process and he remained silent, with no sign of tears in those surprising blue eyes. Dame Lovelace stood outside the hall in the courtyard ready to lead them back to their dormitory and, Julian suspected, ready to give them sympathy and treats after their ordeal.

Mr Thornton stood waiting in the courtyard. As Julian shepherded the boys past him, he cleared his throat. Julian paused and turned to look at him. Thornton’s pale blue eyes were on Van Daan’s white face.

“You think you have got away with this,” he said. His eyes shifted to Galloway who was quietly crying. “I know where that filthy dog is being kept and I have spoken to my senior boys. Long before your father can arrive, Galloway, it will be drowned in the Thames as you richly deserve.”

Galloway gave a cry of distress and Julian stepped forward to put his arm about the child. “It won’t,” he said firmly. “I’ll take it in charge myself and…”

He got no further. Paul van Daan stepped forward, his eyes on the Greek master. Before Julian could either move or speak he was reaching for Thornton. Julian watched in horror as he bundled the master forward towards the fountain, easily fending off the older man’s thrashing arms. Van Daan lifted him up and hurled him bodily into the slimy stagnant water which was full of soggy autumn leaves. There was a huge splash and a yell and then nothing apart from the sloshing sound of an enraged Greek master in a gown struggling out of a seventeenth century fountain.

***

Paul was confined to his dormitory while awaiting the arrival of a carriage to take him home. He was not surprised that he had been expelled and he realised, during the long boring hours of his imprisonment, that he was not particularly upset. Whatever his father decided to do with him next, he was thoroughly tired of Eton.

He would miss his friends. Galloway came to visit him before he left, his arms full of exuberant puppy. Paul spent their hour together playing with India and was pleased when Galloway informed him that he would not be returning to Eton. Sir Edward Galloway had held a brief conversation with both the Headmaster and Mr Thornton and Paul thought that his friend would be much happier studying under a tutor at home. He watched Galloway leave with India in his arms and decided that whatever happened next, he had done the right thing.

Cathcart had decided to stay until the summer when he was to take up his post in the Navy. He sat cross legged on Paul’s bed and surveyed his friend serenely.

“You were an idiot, Van Daan. You’d have got away with it if not for Thornton.”

“I know. It was worth it though.”

“Did you know they’d kick you out?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you want them to?”

Paul thought about it. “I didn’t do it deliberately,” he said. “I mean I’d have been all right staying. Certainly until you left in the summer.”

“So why in God’s name…”

“Because he deserved it,” Paul said. He had had time to think about it. “I understand why they flogged us. I was angry they flogged both of you, especially Galloway. But all right. I could have lived with that. But when that bastard Thornton threatened Galloway’s dog…”

“Paul, he was never going to get to her. Mr Holland was halfway through a sentence, explaining that he’d got that under control. I doubt the old fool even knew where she was. He was just being spiteful, trying to upset Galloway.”

“I know he was,” Paul said. “That’s why I threw him into the fountain.”

 Cathcart was laughing. “You’re hopeless,” he said. “What in God’s name is your father going to say to this?”

“I’ve no idea but it won’t be anything good. Look don’t worry about it. You’ll join the navy and rise up the ranks and be a hero. Write to me and tell me how you’re getting on. I’ll let you know where I am and what I’m doing.”

“Make sure you do, Van Daan. I’m never going to forget what you did for me those first weeks when I was here.”

“You’d have done fine without me, Cathcart. You’re all right. Just do me a favour. This summer, before you board that ship…”

“What?”

“Fucking learn to swim,” Paul said with feeling. “You’re going to sea. It’s going to be useful.”

They laughed together and Paul felt both a sense of camaraderie and a sense of loss that he and Cathcart were about to go their separate ways. After a moment, Cathcart said:

“I’m sorry you got kicked out but I’m not sorry we did it. It was a bloody good laugh.”

“It really was. Poor Welby, we pulled him in very thoroughly. That story you told was brilliant, Cathcart, I don’t know how you came up with it.”

“Oh, I didn’t make that up,” Cathcart said cheerfully. “I mean I might have embroidered it a bit, but that was true.”

“What do you mean, it was true?”

“Peterson really did tell me that story about the girl and what happened to her, though obviously I don’t know if he made it up.”

“I didn’t realise that. I thought you had hidden literary talent. Did you speak to Welby before he left? I didn’t get a chance, they’ve got me locked up.”

“Yes, He’s all right. A bit embarrassed about being duped. I think he must have been really drunk that night.”

“I did wonder,” Paul said.

“He saw the gown we hung up the minute he opened that door. Scared the life out of him.”

“It would.”

“But he kept saying that he couldn’t understand how we faked the crying. When he was walking along the river bank he said he could hear a woman crying all the way.”

“I’d blame that on an over-active imagination and the brandy,” Paul said.

“He must have been thoroughly foxed then, because he also said he couldn’t work out how we managed the girl’s face. He went on and on about how terrible it was, with bulging eyes and a horrible colour. He claims he’d never have been convinced if it hadn’t been for that awful face hanging there.”

Paul thought about that for a moment. “He must really have drunk a lot of brandy,” he said finally. “He should cut back.”

“That’s what I thought. Good luck, Van Daan.”

“You too, Cathcart. Keep in touch.

***

Julian went to visit Van Daan on the day before his departure for London. His father had sent a brief letter regarding outstanding fees and travel arrangements but the boy was to travel alone in the post chaise. If he had written separately to his son Julian knew nothing of it. He found the boy with his trunk half packed reading a letter.

“It’s from Galloway, sir. He’s safely home and the dog is doing nicely.”

Julian smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Van Daan, because from your point of view that dog was very expensive.”

“Not at all, sir. My father is about to save a fortune in school fees.”

Julian gave the joke the perfunctory smile that it deserved. “Are you  all right boy?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be fine.”

“Your father must be furious.”

“My father is always furious with me, sir. I’m used to it. Look, I won’t be here but Cathcart will. Now that Welby has gone I doubt anybody will go after him. But I’d feel better knowing you were keeping an eye out for him.”

“I give you my word,” Julian said. He was rather impressed with the boy’s loyalty to his friends. “I’m sorry Van Daan. You were an idiot but you deserved better than this.”

The boy smiled reservedly. “I think I got what I deserved, sir. What I did wasn’t that bad, but I made rather a mess of it.”

Julian studied him and decided to tell the truth. “Yes, you did,” he admitted. “Not because you got caught or because your scheme failed. Welby got what he deserved, after all.”

Van Daan said nothing. After a moment, Julian said:

“Good. I’m glad you didn’t agree with me. Because he nearly drowned because you needed to show how clever you were. He was an idiot but he didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes he did. You’re forgetting – sir – that I came across him threatening to throw a frightened twelve year old down a well. I’m glad I got him out of the river that night, because I’d have hated to have his death on my conscience. But if I regret anything, it’s not scaring the shit out of Cecil Welby, it’s that two of my friends got beaten because they stepped up to help me against their better judgement. And that was my fault.”

Julian had come with the intention of saying something of the kind but it was clear that the boy was ahead of him. He had not realised before that Van Daan had an over-developed sense of responsibility but it might possibly explain that final act of madness. Julian sighed and shook his head.

“I understand everything else,” he said. “But why in God’s name did you throw Mr Thornton into that fountain?”

Paul van Daan was looking down at his linked hands but he looked up at that, meeting Julian’s gaze without hesitation.

“That? Oh, that wasn’t really part of the plan, sir. I’m afraid I just lost  my temper. I do that sometimes.”

Julian studied him and realised he was telling the simple truth. He could think of nothing else useful to say so he held out his hand and Van Daan shook it.

“Goodbye, Van Daan. There’s a little speech I make when my pupils leave and I always tell them I’ll be watching their future careers with great interest. I can honestly say that in your case, that will be true. I can’t imagine what you’ll do next, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it. Good luck.”

If you’ve enjoyed this story and haven’t tried the books, you can read about the beginning of Paul’s army career in An Unconventional Officer.

Waterloo 2022: prelude

Waterloo 2022: prelude only really came about because I live on the Isle of Man. My much anticipated Waterloo tour officially starts in London with dinner on 1st September, but given the unpredictable nature of travel these days, I was absolutely determined not to risk a major delay. Accordingly I found myself in London with a whole day to spare yesterday.

Some people – those with sense – would have found something relaxing to do ahead of what is likely to be an energetic tour. I decided the best way to spend the day was on a marathon tour around the navy museums in Greenwich, before going for dinner with some of my fellow travellers. I was absolutely shattered but had a great deal of fun.

The National Maritime Museum part of Royal Museums Greenwich, a network of museums in the Maritime Greenwich World Heritage Site. Greenwich has always had connections with the sea and navigation. There was a Roman landing place here, the Navy has a long history with the Greenwich waterfront and in 1675, Charles II founded the Royal Observatory for “finding the longitude of places” Greenwich has been the home of Greenwich Mean Time and the Prime Meridian since 1884, and has been a centre for astronomical study. Navigators right across the world have set their clocks according to its time of day.  It’s the perfect place for a maritime museum.

The Museum has a fantastic collection on the history of Britain at sea  including both British and Dutch maritime art, cartography, manuscripts  ship models and plans, scientific and navigational instruments. There are a series of galleries looking at the history of Britain at sea, organised either geographically or by historic period.

There is, as usual, an abundance of information and artefacts about Lord Nelson, England’s most feted naval hero including the clothing he was wearing when he was shot down on the deck of the Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar. While I’m grateful that the national obsession with Nelson means that EVERY navy museum has something relating to my period of interest, I can’t help imagining the howls of indignation of a few other navy officers of the era who really did some quite impressive stuff themselves, but don’t get a mention. Nevertheless, the National Maritime Museum is fascinating, with loads to see and do for both adults and children and I highly recommend it.

Close by is the old Royal Naval College, the centrepiece of what has come to be known as Maritime Greenwich. The buildings were originally built as the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich, first chartered by King William III and Queen Mary II in 1694. The buildings were designed by Christopher Wren and built between 1696 and 1712. The hospital closed in 1869 and between 1873 and 1998 it was the Royal Naval College, Greenwich.

Model of Greenwich Palace

There had been a palace on this site from the days of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. It was rebuilt by Henry VII and became known as Greenwich Palace, a favourite residence of several Tudor monarchs. Henry VIII, Mary I and Elizabeth I were all born there. It remained a royal palace until it fell into disrepair during the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century and was finally demolished in 1694.

Greenwich Seaman’s Hospital was built on the orders of Mary II who was affected by the sight of wounded sailors coming home from the Battle of La Hogue. It is incredibly beautiful architecturally and both the Chapel and the Painted Hall are well worth a visit. I particularly liked the Chapel, which has naval motifs incorporated into the design.

 

 

 

Admiral Sir Richard Keats

Even so, I will admit that for me the most exciting part of that visit was to spot a bust of Admiral Sir Richard Keats, looking benignly at me from a corner. Keats is a recurring character in my Manxman series and it was like running into an old friend, though I probably confused the rest of the tour group with my enthusiasm. Nobody had heard of him and I promise I only gave a gratuitous chunk of information in revenge for somebody asking me if he would have known Nelson…

 

Henry VIII’s tiltyard at Greenwich

There’s a modern visitor centre which is really interesting on the subject of the early history of the Greenwich site, including models of the the old palace and the tilt yard established there by Henry VIII.

 

 

Nelson also features a fair bit, surprisingly enough. England’s Hero lay in state for several days in the Painted Hall and there is a small dedicated Nelson Room, but my favourite artefact is a lion which was apparently a model piece for the Nelson frieze. The lion is holding a stone which purports to claim that Nelson fought in 122 battles. I had this piece of information from the guide and I’ve not managed to check it at all, but my extensive reading on the subject of the Napoleonic navy so far has suggested that most of the time was spent either on tedious blockade duty or seething at home on half-pay. Nobody seemed able to answer my question about how Nelson managed to see quite so much action during his time in the navy but if I get to the bottom of it, I’ll let you know. Alternatively, if anybody else knows where I can find a list of these battles, I’d love to hear it. Nice lion, though.

My final visit of the day was to the Cutty Sark, a nineteenth century tea clipper located in dry dock on the river bank. The Cutty Sark has a very sentimental place in my heart as it was a favourite place to visit as a child. We used to go to Greenwich a lot, getting the bus from Mile End and then walking through the Victorian foot tunnel under the river. I loved it there, the park and the eclectic market, the little shops, the Queen’s House and the Observatory, the graceful buildings of the Naval College. That much history in one place always set off my very eccentric imagination about the men and women who had lived in these buildings and walked these streets in the past. But the absolute joy for me was the once or twice a year when we were allowed to actually go aboard the Cutty Sark.

In those days, the Cutty Sark wasn’t the only ship on the riverside. She was joined by the Gypsy Moth IV, the yacht in which Sir Francis Chichester became the first person to single-handedly circumnavigate the globe in 1966. The yacht is now on display in the museum at Buckler’s Hard but I can remember visiting her at Greenwich. It was an exciting story and my sister, her interest firmly rooted in the present, loved it but it failed to catch my enthusiasm in the way that the clipper races of the Cutty Sark did.

I wasn’t sure that I’d still feel the same about the Cutty Sark. Certainly the displays aboard ship are very different to my childhood memories, probably because of the enormous amount of conservation work done over the years, especially after the fire of 2007. It’s astonishing that despite everything, 90% of the ship in Greenwich today is original. The ship you see today is mostly the same as when she first carried tea from Shanghai to London and was reopened by Her Majesty The Queen in 2012.

The Victorian foot tunnel at Greenwich

I was amused at how small the Cutty Sark felt to me, after recent visits to the Victory, the Trincomalee and the Warrior. Below decks had nothing like the atmosphere of the Napoleonic ships but once I was on deck again, I suddenly had that same feeling I remember in childhood, gazing awestruck up into her rigging, trying to imagine what it would have been like. The displays were fascinating and I’ve finally found out where the ship’s name came from. But for me, just standing there on the riverside, stepping onto the deck and then walking down into the old foot tunnel brought back memories so vivid I got quite emotional.

 

After a day on my feet, it was a relief to meet up with some of my fellow travellers at the Royal Horse Guards Hotel, and dinner was great fun. Today has been very restful, with a trip on the river and lunch at the Royal Opera House with Janet, one of my readers whom I’ve chatted to over the past couple of years and who I’ve been dying to meet. I think I’ve recuperated enough to hit the streets of London with Number One London Tours tomorrow to visit Waterloo related sights before heading off to Belgium the following day.

I’ll try to keep up these posts over the trip and share as many photos as I can, though it’s a packed programme so some of it will probably have to wait until I get home again. I’m hoping to learn a lot this week which will help me with the Waterloo book when I finally get to it. It’s getting alarmingly close…

Tangled Spirits by Kate Shanahan: reviewed by Lynn Bryant

Tangled Spirits by Kate Shanahan: reviewed by Lynn Bryant

Tangled Spirits by Kate Shanahan is a historical time-travel novel set in tenth century Japan. It is utterly off the grid for me and turned out to be the best book I’ve read for ages.

I heard of this book through the Historical Writers Forum as it was about to be published and I’ve no idea what made me decide to try it, as I know very little about Japanese history. I’m really glad I did.

The plot revolves around two young women. Mina is an American student, currently studying in Japan while Masako is an aspiring shaman in the tenth century, dabbling in magic after the death of her mother. The result is that Mina is drawn into Masako’s body and the two girls have to find a way to co-exist while working out how to get Mina back home.

The plot is relatively simple but the world that Mina finds herself in is rich, complex and beautifully drawn. Fictional characters blend easily into a brilliantly researched historical landscape and rub shoulders effortlessly with real historical characters.

The author writes really well and has a talent for characterisation. She manages to convey the different personalities of the two girls. Mina and Masako both have strengths and faults and can both be exasperating at times, which makes them endearingly human.

The complicated world of the Japanese court and the unfamiliar culture are very well described but the author manages not to allow her deep knowledge of the history overwhelm the story. By the end of the book, I was rooting for Mina to get back home while at the same time saddened by the impending separation from her spiritual partner. Even the denouement back in the modern world, which could have been trite, worked really well.

The author provides a great deal of historical explanation at the end of the book which can be easily skipped but which is great for a nerd like me who always wants to know which bits were real. The answer was a surprising amount. I have huge admiration for the way Kate Shanahan has woven her fictional story into known history to create a fabulous tapestry of a novel.

Highly recommended.

NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week

NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week has gone better than I ever expected. There’s something very motivating about sitting down each day knowing that you’re not going to give up until you’ve at least come close to your word count.

As I’ve said before, I discovered when I came back to this book that I’d written more than I realised, although it was a bit all over the place, with a series of unconnected scenes. They weren’t all bad though. In fact I was really happy with some of them. Others were interesting but just not right for this book. I quickly realised that the first two chapters were probably the reason I found it so difficult to progress when I first started to work on this book last year. They slowed the book down unbearably from the beginning and kept impinging on the action later on as I had to justify their existence by keeping those narratives going. I’ve scrapped them completely and rewritten the following chapters to fit in and I’m now very happy with the start of this book.

Including the remaining excerpts which will either be scrapped or incorporated into the book when I get to them, I’ve now got seventy-nine thousand words, which is probably more than half the book. It’s going incredibly well. I’ve sent the first four chapters to my editor, just to read through, and she loves it, so I think I’m on the right track. To complete a first draft before the end of May I need to write an average of three to four thousand words a day, and I think I can probably manage that. After that will be a major edit, but I’m hopeful this book will be out before the end of the year, which makes me very happy after the disasters of the previous two years.

I love writing about Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell but in order to be able to tell the full story of the siege of Tarragona I needed men on the ground. As with the storming of Castro Urdiales in An Unmerciful Incursion, the British army wasn’t involved in this campaign. In that book, I solved the problem by giving some of my regular characters a reason to be in the town at the time of the siege. At Tarragona, I found that there were several published narratives written by men on the ground. Both General Suchet and General Contreras wrote their own accounts of what happened at Tarragona giving me some excellent source material to put alongside the account of Captain Codrington of the Royal Navy. 

Accordingly, this will be the first outing for the French Captain Gabriel Bonnet of the 30th légère who later makes an appearance in An Indomitable Brigade. From the Spanish side, I’ve introduced a brand new character who is presenting me with an interesting challenge. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez, ADC to General Contreras who commanded the Spanish garrison in Tarragona is a complex individual who is not  always likeable and not easy to write. I’ll be interested to see how this one goes.

It’s the start of a new week. I’ll keep you updated on progress on my Facebook page, so keep an eye out for posts there. I’m very excited to see where this book takes me next.

Oscar and Alfie are excited as well, as you can see…

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from the early part of the voyage to Tarragona. Enjoy.

Hugh turned his attention to his sextant. It was a bright clear day, making the readings easy. Beside him Manby worked out his latitude in a small notebook and there was silence over the group of observers who were suddenly intent on their work. When the master had finished, he walked aft to where Lieutenant Pryce, the officer of the watch waited. Pryce accepted his report of noon along with the degrees and minutes of the latitude observed.

Hugh watched, hiding his smile, as Pryce approached him to make the same report. Manby had needed to walk past him to reach Pryce, but it would not have occurred to the master to report directly to Hugh and Hugh would not have asked him to do so. The daily rituals of shipboard life were important, not because of routine days such as this when Hugh was present and available, but for the one day when he would not be, and a crisis might occur.

Pryce saluted, announced that it was twelve o’clock and gave the latitude which Hugh already knew. Hugh nodded.

“Make it twelve, Mr Pryce.”

“Aye, sir.” Pryce raised his voice to the mate of the watch. “Make it twelve, Sanders.”

“Aye, sir.” Petty Officer Sanders turned to the waiting quarter-master. “Sound eight bells.”

The quarter-master stepped onto the ladder and called below. “Turn the glass and strike the bell.”

As the first stroke of the bell rang out, Pryce turned to where Geordie Armstrong waited, his whistle ready. “Pipe to dinner, Bosun.”

Hugh stood watching as officers and men dispersed. The officers dined in the wardroom at one o’clock and then Hugh dined an hour later, theoretically in solitary splendour. In practice, if he had no other guests, Hugh dined with his first lieutenant. He knew that one or two of his other officers during the past few years had looked askance at his close friendship with Durrell. There had been mutterings of favouritism, particularly after Walcheren when Hugh had stood by Durrell against all attempts to put him on half-pay.

Hugh could see Durrell now, his long form leaning against a grating. He was demonstrating something in a notebook to two of the midshipmen, waving his pencil in the air as he explained. Hugh had no idea what he was teaching them, but he knew it would be accurate, very well-explained and incredibly detailed. Hugh had received many such lectures from his junior and at times they had driven him mad, but he had also learned a great deal. He stood waiting for Durrell to finish, watching the midshipmen. Mr Clarke was staring into space, looking as though he would rather be somewhere else. His companion, one of the new boys by the name of Holland, was scribbling frantically in his own notebook, looking up every now and again with something like hero-worship at Durrell’s oblivious form. Hugh made a mental note to spend some time with Mr Holland and came forward.

“Mr Durrell. As it’s our first day at sea, I’ve invited the other officers to join us for dinner.”

Durrell smiled. “We’re very grateful, sir.”

“I’m sure you’ll be willing to act as my second host. And I’d be grateful if you’d do the same tomorrow when I’m hosting the midshipmen. I may need help with that.”

Durrell laughed aloud. “I’d be delighted, sir. I’m sure the young gentlemen will be on their best behaviour.”

“They’d better be.” Hugh surveyed Durrell’s two pupils. “Mr Clarke, I hope you’re studying hard. Mr Holland, you’re new to us. How are you enjoying your lessons?”

“Very much, Captain.”

“Excellent. You were taking notes there.”

“Yes, sir. Mr Durrell was explaining the difference between various instruments when making calculations and how they…” Holland stopped suddenly and blushed scarlet. “It was very interesting,” he said lamely.

“It’s fascinating,” Hugh said, amused. “I applaud your ability to rein in your enthusiasm but don’t do it with me, you’re exactly the kind of young officer I’m looking for. I’d like to get to know you better, you’ll sit beside me tomorrow at dinner. Now go and get your own dinner before your messmates eat it all.”

He watched as the younger men raced away to their meal then turned to Durrell. “Are you sure you’re ready to help me at this dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course I am, sir. There are one or two very promising men among the new midshipmen, but Mr Holland is my favourite so far.”

“I can see why. If he’s as good as he seems, why don’t you find him some extra duties that will give you a chance to work with him?”

Hugh saw his first lieutenant’s eyes light up. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at dinner. As my clerk is struck down with sea-sickness, I intend to spend the next hour setting out my accounts book.”

Hugh heard the gloom in his own voice. Durrell laughed. “Would you like me to do it, sir?”

“Yes, but you’re not going to, you take on far too many duties that are not yours, including schooling the midshipmen. I…”

Hugh broke off at the sound of raised voices from the gangway. Before he could move, Durrell was ahead of him. Hugh watched as his first lieutenant crossed the deck and barked an order. Three boys scrambled up onto the deck and lined up before him and Durrell looked them over unsmiling.

“Mr Oakley, Mr Bristow. Can you explain to me why you’re brawling with Lewis when you should be on your way to dinner?”

“Not a brawl, sir. Just joking around.”

Durrell said nothing. He let the silence lengthen until the boys were shuffling their feet. Hugh could feel their discomfort and he did not blame them. Durrell’s withering expression was enough to discompose even the liveliest midshipman.

Eventually, Durrell moved his gaze to the third boy. Teddy Lewis was a wiry ex-pickpocket from Southwark who had been pressed as a landsman and had chosen to remain as a volunteer, acting as Durrell’s servant. He was sixteen and smaller than most of the boys but made up for it with a belligerent willingness to fight even the biggest of them. Durrell glared at Lewis for a full minute then looked back at the other two boys.

“Aboard a Royal Navy vessel, a midshipman is considered a young gentleman. I happen to know that you both qualify by birth if not behaviour. Repeatedly picking on one who is both smaller and below you in rank because you think he cannot fight back is not the act of a gentleman or a future officer, it is the act of a snivelling coward. Please do not be under the misapprehension that because you joined this ship as midshipman, you will necessarily remain so. If you persist in bullying the other boys I will have you broken to common seaman, and you’ll find that below decks the men will be unimpressed with your status. Now get to your dinner. I will see you at four o’clock after the watch is called and we will spend some time improving your mathematics.”

“But sir, study time is over then,” Bristow said in appalled tones.

“Not for you, Mr Bristow, since it appears that you struggle to find constructive ways to spend your leisure. Dismissed. Not you, Lewis.”

When the other boys had gone, Durrell regarded his servant thoughtfully. “Are you hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“Did they take anything?”

Lewis hesitated and Hugh could see him considering whether he could get away with a lie.

“I will find out, Lewis, and you will regret it.”

“My lesson book, sir.”

“Did you get it back?”

“It’s spoiled, sir. In the animal pen, it’s covered in shit…I mean dung, sir.”

Durrell did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was pleasant and even. Hugh could tell that he was furious.

“Go to the purser after dinner and get another one, with my authorisation. When you’re not using it, you have my permission to keep it in my cabin. The money will be deducted from their pay. In the meantime, Lewis, in addition to practicing your reading and penmanship, I would like you to practice walking away. If you spend your time defending every inch of your dignity you’ll never rise above able seaman and that would be a shame, because you are more intelligent than either of them. Now go and get your dinner.”

NaNoWriMo with Labradors: Introduction

NaNoWriMo with Labradors: Introduction

NaNoWriMo with Labradors appeared in my brain when I was trying to get back to sleep at 3.45am. I often struggle with sleep due to back problems, but I do try not to actually think when I’m awake. Thinking is fatal as I have the kind of brain which, once it’s fired up, sets off a series of ideas like a row of fireworks going off. This is really useful when creating fictional plots but a complete pain in the early hours of the morning. Let’s just say I’m going to be tired today.

Those of you who have grown old waiting for the release of An Indomitable Brigade will know that I’ve been struggling to be productive since the beginning of the pandemic. I was absolutely delighted to finally publish book seven of the Peninsular War Saga and even more pleased at how well it’s been received so far. This has given me a really good push to get on with the next book.

 

This Bloody Shore is book three in the Manxman series and is centred around the Siege of Tarragona in 1811. I started to write this book immediately after the publication of An Unmerciful Incursion in July 2020 and made a good start, but after a while I stalled and simply couldn’t get moving with it. Eventually I decided to set it aside and move back to the 110th in Spain. Hugh and Durrell have waited ever since, fairly patiently for them, until last week when I hauled them off half-pay and back aboard the Iris, setting sail for the Mediterranean.

 

I realised I’d written a lot more of this book than I thought, which was excellent news. Even better, most of it is very good with the exception of the first two chapters which were utterly superfluous to requirements and probably explain why I struggled with this book first time around. I’ve come up with some new ideas, done some more research, invented a useful new character (with major links to the other series, incidentally) and am ready to go.

That’s when I came up with this mad idea. I’ve never seriously done NaNoWriMo. Partly it’s because I write all the time anyway and have never felt the need to do a particular push like that. Partly it’s because the allocated month is November and that’s not generally the best time for me to be going all out on a novel. I’ve always quite liked the idea of a determined push like that, though, and as I’d really like to get another book out this year, it occurred to me that I could do my very own NaNoWriMo to try to get at least the first draft of this book finished.

For those of you who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month which usually takes place every November. Writers can register on the website and log their daily word count, as well as receiving encouragement and finding writing buddies. It’s a great resource and I suspect an amazing way to get people started. I’ve made a couple of half-hearted attempts at it, but the timing has just never been right for me.

So, my plan is, starting tomorrow, to write between four and five thousand words a day between now and the end of May. That’s probably going to be quite variable, because life will get in the way, but we’ll see how it goes. I’ll post regularly giving my word count and to let you all know how I’m getting on.

My notebook is ready, my laptop is fired up and the desk army and navy are ready to offer support. This book is happening people…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oscar and Alfie are excited about this new initiative at Writing With Labradors, as long as it doesn’t interfere with walks, playtime and mealtimes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Bloody Shore: Book 3 of the Manxman series.

It is 1811.

A desperate struggle takes place on the Eastern coast of Spain. The French are threatening the coastal town of Tarragona and Bonaparte holds out the glittering prize of a Marshal’s baton if General Suchet can capture the town.

Far from Wellington’s theatre of war, the town is held by Spanish forces under the Marquis of Campoverde. Supporting them is a small Royal Navy squadron, including the 74-gun third rater, HMS Iris.

After the frustration and political wrangling of the Walcheren campaign, Captain Hugh Kelly is missing Roseen but is relieved to be back at sea under the command of a man he trusts even though the situation in Tarragona is more complicated than it appears. Lieutenant Alfred Durrell is keen to put his family troubles behind him, but an unexpected encounter in London has left him feeling unsettled.

On shore, two very different men face each other across the walls of Tarragona. Captain Gabriel Bonnet, a scarred cynical veteran  discovers a surprising sympathy for one particular victim of war. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez is a former Spanish Bonapartist but the atrocities he has seen have turned him into an implacable enemy of the French.

Meanwhile in England, Faith Collingwood’s long months of banishment are ended by an event which will change her life forever.

As Suchet’s troops creep ever closer to the walls, the armies, the navy and the townspeople are swept up in a brutal conflict which ends on the bloody shores of Tarragona.

 

 

 

Here comes 2022

Here comes 2022 at Writing with Labradors, though it’s arriving a little late. Many apologies, and Happy New Year to you all. In many ways, though, the fact that I’m late with my usual New Year’s greeting is in keeping with the whole of the past year. I had such big plans for 2021 and very few of them came to fruition. Mired down in the misery of restrictions, and beset by family difficulties, it’s been a slow year here at Writing with Labradors and at times, I’ve felt like a complete disaster. Still, things are steadily improving and it’s good to look back because it reminds me there have been some highs as well as lows during this year.

#Low. Restrictions didn’t go away. Instead, we had more lockdowns and vaccine passports

#High. Vaccines mostly work.

#Low. My sister became very ill after her vaccine, and I couldn’t go to see her.

#High. She’s slowly improving, and I’ve seen her now.

#Low. Three of the five members of my family had covid at different times despite being vaccinated.

#High. None of them were really ill.

#Low. All my planned research trips were cancelled due to restrictions.

#High. Once I could travel to the UK, I organised my very own writer’s retreat which was absolutely brilliant and improved everything.

#Low. I didn’t manage to publish a book last year, for the first time since I began publishing.

 

#High. I finished book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga and it’s currently with my editor, so will be out very soon.

#Low. Writing this year has been difficult.

#High. I published my usual three free short stories this year, plus a bonus one in the spring. For Valentine’s Day, we had A Winter in Cadiz, a romance set during Lord Wellington’s brief trip to Cadiz in the winter of 1812-13. My spring story was The Pressed Man, a story of the fourteen-year-old Paul van Daan’s impressment into the Royal Navy. For Halloween, there was an Inescapable Justice, a ghostly tale of bloody mutiny set aboard a Royal Navy frigate. And for Christmas, a favourite Peninsular War Saga character discovers a new responsibility and the merest hint of a future romance, in The Gift.

#Low. I’ve been struggling with chronic pain due to arthritis, and in the current situation, there isn’t a chance of any treatment.

#High. For the first time I have published a short story in an anthology. Hauntings is a collection of ghost stories by writers from the Historical Writers Forum and came out for Halloween last year. (Yes, I did have to come up with two ghost stories in one year. Don’t judge me.) My offering, An Unquiet Dream, is a spooky tale set in an army hospital in Elvas in 1812 and features a regular minor character from the Peninsular War Saga.

 

 

 

#High. I was also asked to be part of an anthology of short stories edited by Tom Williams (author of the Burke novels and the Williamson books) which will be published this year. The story is called The Recruit and is set in Ireland during the 1798 rebellion. (I see my regulars with their ears pricking up there. “Really? Who could that be about?”)

#High. My immediate family are great and doing very well. My son and his girlfriend are settled in their jobs and looking to move out soon. My daughter is in her final year studying history at the University of York and is getting firsts so far.

#High. Alfie. After a long period of Oscar holding the fort alone at Writing with Labradors and doing a splendid job, we welcomed our new baby into the family in May, and despite his well-deserved nickname of the Chaos Demon, he has proved to be a valued and much adored member of staff.

#High. I had a great time with the Historical Writers Forum last year, including taking part in a panel to talk about writing battles in historical fiction.

 

#High. Oscar. Still my baby, and possibly the most well-behaved Labrador in the country.

#High. You see, this is why it’s really good to actually write out a list of highs and lows of the past year. Because I ran out of lows, which pretty much proved that despite everything, my life is good.

There’s one very big low that I’ve not included as part of the list because it would be crass to do so. In August, after several years of watching them struggle and a year of frantic anxiety during Covid restrictions, we finally managed to persuade my in-laws to move to the Isle of Man on a trial basis.

Sadly, it didn’t go as we’d hoped. They’d left it too late, and it was very quickly clear that my mother-in-law’s dementia had got significantly worse, while my father-in-law was very unwell. Malcolm died suddenly on 30th October, of a massive heart attack, and after a difficult period, Irene returned to London to go into a care home near her daughter. The funeral was held just two weeks before Christmas.

I miss Malcolm. He was only here for a few months, but I got very used to him being around. From the earliest days of my relationship with Richard, almost thirty years ago now, Malcolm and I had a special bond. He shared my enthusiasm for history, and years ago, before I’d ever published, he bought me my first biography of Wellington, the Longford one, from a second-hand book shop. He got on well with my parents, although they didn’t meet that often, and he adored his grandchildren. He loved books and music and was interested in current affairs. He also loved technology, especially cars, and when he was younger, he could fix anything. Before I was even married, he took me for a day out to Silverstone, to watch a Formula One Grand Prix, and we had a fabulous time.

Malcolm was kind and funny and was unbelievably proud to have a daughter-in-law who was an author. One of his last acts was to blag a free copy of An Unconventional Officer for a doctor at Nobles Hospital who had been good to him during a recent stay. His favourite spot, when visiting, was my reading corner in my study. He loved the armchair and would sneak in when he got the chance and take an afternoon nap or browse through one of my books while I was working.

Richard and I went to London with a van to collect some of their possessions when we still thought they might make a go of living over here. I rather fell in love with a beautiful collection of wooden boats that Malcolm had in his study and mentioned how much I liked them as we were unpacking. To my surprise and delight, he insisted on giving them to me, to go with my wooden model of the Victory in my study. They look beautiful, and I feel as though there’s a little part of him sharing my workspace still. I’m working on a proper obituary for Malcolm. He had an interesting life, and I’d love to share it with people.

The end of the year was sad, and it wasn’t helped with two family members having covid over Christmas, though neither had anything more than cold symptoms. By New Year’s Eve, both were clear, which meant we could host what is rapidly becoming our traditional young people’s New Year Party. The kids all had a great time and we drank a toast to Malcolm at midnight.

And now it’s 2022 and we’re still struggling to sort out care homes and financial matters for Richard’s mum, which is even harder long distance. I’m trying to look ahead into 2022 and be hopeful, but I think I’m a lot more cautious than I was at the beginning of 2021. I think back then, with the vaccine in the offing, I was naively hopeful that the world would begin to calm down. This year, I’m less sanguine. The wounds left by the past few years are going to take a while to heal but heal they will. History suggests they always do eventually.

I’m hopeful for myself, though. I feel as though I’ve got my enthusiasm back for my writing, and my brain is teeming with ideas. I’m looking forward to Tom’s anthology coming out, and I’m excited for the publication of An Indomitable Brigade. Currently I’m finishing the edits for the rest of the paperbacks, and then I’m returning to This Bloody Shore, which is book three in the Manxman series.

At the beginning of last year, I had a long list of things I wanted to achieve during the year. This year, I’m reluctant to come up with a list, and yet looking at this blog post, although I didn’t manage to get the book out, I was very close, and I did manage quite a lot in very difficult circumstances.

So here goes. This year, I’d like to finish the paperback edits once and for all. I’ve got An Indomitable Brigade coming out very soon, and Tom’s anthology, and I’m determined to finish This Bloody Shore by the end of the year. I’ll be writing my usual three free short stories, and I’ve been asked to write another episode from Paul van Daan’s boyhood, which I’d love to do. I also have an invitation to write a story for another anthology which is completely out of my period and out of my comfort zone. It will be a challenge, but I’d quite like to give it a go, so we’ll see if it comes off.

I’d like to travel again. I dream of going to Castro Urdiales or Tarragona or Santander or Gibraltar, but I’m not prepared to book until I’m very confident I won’t be caught up in some last-minute lockdown. This year I suspect I’ll confine my travels to the UK, and possibly Ireland. After the restrictions of the last two years, even that will seem like a blessing.

In the meantime, Happy New Year from all of us at Writing with Labradors. I know all of you will have had your highs and lows this year, and many will be a lot worse than mine. Thank you all so much for your support and enthusiasm and your sheer love of the books, the characters and the history. Let’s hope things improve steadily through 2022.

A Writer’s Retreat

A Writer’s Retreat

Trying to write in the middle of a busy household with a couple of Labradors and an over-developed sense of responsibility, I’ve often dreamed of going on a Writer’s Retreat. I’m sure many of my fellow writers feel the same way. After yet another week where writing plans have sunk without trace in a round of supermarket shopping, dealing with elderly relatives, proofreading essays and cleaning the dogs’ ears, I love the idea of a few days of peace and quiet in lovely surroundings with nothing to do but write. I’ve never done it though.

I’ve come close a few times. I used to volunteer to cat-sit for my sister, who lives in a very beautiful place, and I certainly took the opportunity to catch up on work while I was there. Somehow though, it was still never the haven I dreamed about. I’ve taken off on research trips on my own many times, but those tend to be a frantic round of getting to the places I wanted, taking photographs and making notes. It would almost have felt too self-indulgent to spend the day sitting doing nothing but writing.

Organised writers’ retreats look very appealing, but many of them seem very expensive. Besides which, they generally include other writers. I know myself too well, and the opportunity to sit and talk writing, history and general nonsense with a group of like-minded people would be irresistible. They’d be a lot of fun, but I’d get nothing done.

The second half of 2021 was hard for me. It is well recorded elsewhere on this blog that I didn’t do well with lockdown and restrictions, and although I would have loved to book a research trip somewhere in Europe, I didn’t trust that these wouldn’t be reinstated at a moment’s notice. Richard managed a couple of cycling trips to the UK, and we had some friends to stay the moment restrictions lifted enough, but I was miserable. The only trips I made to the UK were necessary family visits and none of them were particularly restful. We had been having a lot of problems with my elderly in-laws who had recently moved to the island and I felt as though my life had become one long round of hospital visits and troubleshooting phone calls.

2021 was also the first year since I began publishing that I didn’t manage to get a book out. Back in October, it seemed as though I wasn’t even going to get close to it. I knew what I needed to do, and the book was going well, but I couldn’t get enough time to work on it. I was frazzled and seriously burned out and I needed a break, but I had no idea where I wanted to go or what was practical in the post-Covid world.

Burnout is one thing, but the annual Halloween short story was due, and I had an idea for a story set during Captain Hugh Kelly’s younger days, when he was newly promoted to captain of a frigate. My research so far has all been based around the 74-gun Iris, but I wanted information about one of the smaller, faster ships which made stars of the navy captains. A quick spell of internet research introduced me to HMS Trincomalee, the oldest warship still afloat in Europe.

The Trincomalee looked gorgeous and was located in the Museum of the Royal Navy in Hartlepool, something I didn’t even know existed. I did a bit of research and decided that I absolutely wanted to go there, and sooner rather than later. I was actually very excited. It’s been two years since there was a very real prospect of me travelling anywhere to do something just for myself, and the sheer joy I felt, made me realise how badly I needed a break. I checked dates with Richard then went searching for accommodation.

I was determined not to stay with family or friends. This time I wanted to be completely on my own agenda. I didn’t want to stay in Hartlepool, but somewhere pretty, within easy driving distance. North Yorkshire looked good, and I love that area. No self-catering. I do enough cooking at home. I typed in my requirements, to be listed by cost for a week, lowest first.

The first thing that popped up was a room at the Duke of Wellington Inn, in Danby. I swear to God, people, I’d booked it within ten minutes. Sometimes it’s obviously a sign.

The Duke of Wellington Inn is an ivy-clad traditional eighteenth century inn located in the tiny village of Danby in the North York Moors, about fifteen miles inland from Whitby. Until I found the place, I hadn’t decided that my trip was going to be my very own personalised writer’s retreat, but a bit of research made me realise it was perfect. Danby really is small, although very pretty. The Moors National Park Centre is just at the edge of the village, and there’s a tiny bakery with a café just behind the Duke of Wellington. Other than that, there’s not even a shop in the village. For somebody wanting uninterrupted writing time, it couldn’t have been better.

I checked with the owner whether there was a suitable table in my room for working. The single rooms were fairly small, but he assured me there was a guests’ sitting room with a desk in it and I’d be very welcome to work there as it was seldom used. When I arrived and saw it, I couldn’t quite believe my luck. For a week, I effectively had my own personal study. It was completely lovely.

The Duke of Wellington Inn was built in 1732 and was originally known as the Red Briar. It was used as a recruiting post during the Napoleonic Wars and was apparently known as either the Wellington Arms or the Lord Wellington during this period. I haven’t yet been able to find out when the name was changed to the Duke of Wellington – my first thought was that it must have been after 1815 to commemorate the victory at Waterloo, but I discovered that when Canon Atkinson arrived in 1847 to take up his post as Vicar of Danby, the inn was still called the Wellington Arms so the transition must have come later. At that point, the inn was kept by two sisters known as Martha and Mary.

A cast iron plaque of the Duke was unearthed during restoration work and can be seen on the wall as you go up the stairs. The inn is not large and is very obviously old – floors are uneven and the furniture is very traditional. Impressively, though, all the essential things for a comfortable stay work really well – the bed was comfortable, the bathroom modern and heating and hot water were spot on. I’d booked bed and breakfast, but after a look at the dinner menu, decided I’d eat there in the evening as well. It was standard pub food, but well-cooked and sensibly priced, and I never object to sitting by an open fire in a traditional country pub to eat. In addition, the staff were absolutely amazing. Nothing was too much trouble and they treated my invasion of the guest sitting room as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Thank you so much guys.

I’m pleased to say I stood by my resolution to treat this week as a writer’s retreat. Apart from my one excursion to Hartlepool, I remained in and around the village. The weather was beautiful, crisp and cold but with only one rainy day. I ordered breakfast early then went for a walk every morning before sitting down to work. Lunch was soup and sandwiches from the Stonehouse Bakery, with some excellent cake for afternoon tea, and then I’d go for another walk before dinner. It was often almost dark by the time I got back, and the sunsets were gorgeous.

During the day I took over the desk and worked solidly on book seven, An Indomitable Brigade. I found, to my joy, that I’d been right about the book. There was nothing wrong with either plotting or the research I’d done. I just needed time, and peace and quiet to get on with it. I kept in touch with my family during the evening, but firmly refused to take calls during the day. I was helped by the fact that the wi-fi was variable. It worked very well in my room, and down in the bar areas but in the study it was patchy, which removed the temptation to chat on Twitter or Facebook. After the first day, I was completely absorbed in the world of the 110th and the battle of Vitoria.

I enjoyed my day out at the National Museum of the Royal Navy in Hartlepool, and the Trincomalee was everything I hoped for and more. The museum is set up around a historic quayside restored to look like an eighteenth century seaport and its beautiful waterside setting. The various buildings are set up to show tradesmen like tailors, printers and instrument makers with stories about the Royal Navy and the men and women associated with it. It’s a great place for kids, with an adventure play ship and loads of activities, and because I was there during half term, there were demonstrations of gunnery and swordsmanship and various talks scheduled through the day. I went to everything, even though most of this wasn’t new to me. It was a great atmosphere, and I thoroughly enjoyed the interactive Fighting Sail exhibition, though the kids commentary around me probably entertained me as much as the displays.

The Trincomalee was perfect, one of two surviving British frigates of her era. The other, HMS Unicorn is a museum ship in Dundee and I’m going to get there when I can. The Trincomalee was commissioned in 1812 to be built in India using teak, due to the shortage of oak in Britain after the intensive shipbuilding of the Napoleonic wars. Work did not begin until 1816 so by the time the ship was finished the following year, the wars were over and Trincomalee was put to other uses.

On the advice of one of the guides, I waited until the kids were completely absorbed in learning how to form a boarding party on the quayside using foam swords and cutlasses before boarding the ship. It was completely empty and I was able to take photographs, absorb the atmosphere and write stories in my head to my hearts content. The Trincomalee quickly morphed into the fictional Herne in my imagination, Hugh Kelly’s first post-command, and the story was finished. I’ll definitely come back to it though, I’d like to write a lot more of Hugh’s earlier adventures in the navy.

Rush hour in Danby

Back at my borrowed desk, I had a blissful few days of writing, walking on the moors and falling in love both with Yorkshire and with my fictional world all over again. By the time I set off for the ferry at the end of the week, the book was back on track, and I was fairly sure I’d have it written, even if not edited and published, before the end of the year. I had also forgiven myself for my inability to work as well as usual during the past two years. There are probably writers out there who made the most of the restrictions of lockdown and emerged ahead of the game. I suffered, and emotionally it was hard to put myself into the heads of my characters when my own head was so full of confusion. I think on those long, winter walks over the moors I’ve worked out how to be kinder to myself and how to keep a distance when the world feels an alien and unfamiliar place.

I’ve concluded that a writer’s retreat means different things to different people. For some, it’s about learning, and they’re looking for lectures and workshops and the ability to try something new. For others, it’s about connecting with other writers to share ideas and stories and to feel part of a community for a while, in this very solitary job that we do. For me, it’s definitely a retreat, a place of quiet and solitude and some beauty, where I can throw myself back into what I do best without any nagging sense of all the other things on my to do list.

Of course, it also helps to have an eighteenth century Napoleonic recruiting inn and an early nineteenth century frigate thrown in for good measure.

 

The Gift

Welcome to The Gift, my free Christmas story for 2021. After spending last year in London at the Frost Fair, with Captain James Harker, I’ve decided to follow another of my secondary characters home on furlough. The fairly long time spent in winter quarters in 1812-13 presented an opportunity for a number of officers to travel home to see family, recover from injuries or sickness or to deal with family business. Lord Wellington hated giving leave, although he was more generous with it when it was an officer he liked making the request. However, the need to deal with business matters following a bereavement would probably have been granted. Grudgingly, of course.

After the publication of the Frost Fair, one of my most engaged readers told me she would love to read a short story about Captain David Cartwright, as she felt he’d had a raw deal in the books so far. Davy’s career prospects improved with his promotion to major in An Unmerciful Incursion, but after the long, painful retreat from Burgos and Madrid towards the end of 1812, his personal life is still in the doldrums. This story is dedicated to Janet Watkinson – I hope this is what you wanted.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my readers. I feel so guilty about the slow progress of the latest book, but family difficulties have made it impossible to meet my intended deadlines. I’m working frantically on the edits for book seven, An Indomitable Brigade, and if it’s not ready for Christmas, it will be ready very soon afterwards. I hope 2022 is better for all of us, and I’m hoping I’ll have a great writing year and be back on track.

Thanks once again to Heather Paisley, my amazing editor and very good friend, who dropped everything in her very busy life to edit this for me. She is, and always will be, a star.

As always, the story is free, so please share as much as you want. Enjoy.

The Gift

1st March, 1812

Wanted, for immediate employment. Respectable female to act as housekeeper and companion to elderly lady, living alone in the town of Rye.  References required. Apply in writing to Captain Cartwright, via this newspaper. 

14th March, 1812

Dear Captain Cartwright

I write to apply for the situation advertised. I am a single lady, aged thirty-four, with considerable experience in housekeeping. Until recently, I was employed in taking care of an elderly relative. I have provided a recommendation from a clerical gentleman and, should this prove satisfactory, I would be free to take up the position immediately.

Yours, respectfully

Miss H Carleton

Quinta de Santo Antonio, Freineda, Portugal, November 1812

Major David Cartwright of the 112th infantry did not generally consider himself burdened by family responsibilities, so it was a shock to find a package of letters awaiting him on his arrival in Ciudad Rodrigo in the November of 1812, giving him news of two bereavements.

The first of them, that of his elderly Aunt Susan, should not have been a surprise. Mrs Everton was in her eighties and had been unwell for so many years that David was amazed she had lasted this long. During her final months her recent memory had faded, and she had drifted into the distant past. She had done so happily enough, according to Miss Forbes, her long-time housekeeper and companion, who wrote to David occasionally with news. David was grateful, but missed his aunt’s regular letters, full of acerbic remarks about her neighbours, the current government, and the iniquities of the butcher.

Miss Forbes was elderly herself and had written to David as her own health began to decline, suggesting that it was time for a younger replacement. David, newly transferred into the 112th from a tedious post in the quartermaster’s department, had no time to take furlough to attend to distant family affairs. He had taken Miss Forbes’ advice and advertised the post, leaving it to the departing housekeeper to select the new incumbent.

Miss Forbes wrote to him just before she left for an honourable retirement with her widowed sister, expressing cautious approval of her successor. Miss Helen Carleton was, in her opinion, young for the post, but appeared very efficient and good with her elderly charge. David grinned at her assessment, since Miss Carleton was apparently in her thirties, but he supposed she seemed young to a woman approaching seventy. Having discharged his duty to Aunt Susan, he thought no more about it until he arrived back on the Portuguese border, exhausted and dispirited after a long and dangerous retreat, to find a letter from his aunt’s solicitor informing him that she had died, leaving a simple will making him her sole heir.

David read the letter again, thinking about his aunt. He had last seen her just before leaving for Portugal to join Wellesley’s army four years ago and there had already been signs of her deterioration. Their meeting had been hurried, made awkward by the presence of Arabella, David’s wife, whom Mrs Everton cordially disliked. David found himself wishing he had made time to see his aunt alone that week, given that it had been the last time he saw her, but he could not have known it.

Mrs Everton was not a wealthy woman, but she had left David her rambling house in the little seaside town of Rye, in Sussex, and a small income from government bonds. Along with a similar income from his deceased parents, it would enable him, should he decide to leave the army, to live comfortably. David wondered what his wife would have thought of that, then dismissed the thought. Arabella would never have been satisfied with mere comfort. She wanted wealth and social status and a number of other things David was unable to give her, and her disappointment had led to repeated infidelity and their eventual separation.

It had been eighteen months since he had last heard anything of Arabella and during the past year, busy with an unexpected revival of his career, he thought of her less and less. Their marriage had been unhappy, and their separation, although painful, had come as a relief to him. He thought of her briefly when he received the news of his recent promotion to major, but he did not think even that would have satisfied Arabella’s ambition.

David opened the next of his letters and began to read. After a moment, he put it down and sat very still, staring out of the window into a damp winter morning, not seeing the drizzling rain.

Arabella was dead.

The letter was from a Mrs Hetherington, who claimed to run a lodging house in Shrewsbury where Arabella had lived for five months before her untimely death. She had died on the charity ward of a local hospital and Mrs Hetherington, who needed to let the room, had taken it upon herself to pack up her possessions and had found several letters giving David’s name and regiment. She gave the impression of being surprised to discover that her lodger’s claim to a married woman’s status was true but stated that she considered it to be her Christian duty to inform him. There were several trunks and boxes of Mrs Cartwright’s possessions, and Mrs Hetherington would store them until the end of January, when if not collected, they would be sold. David wondered if the rent was unpaid. He was surprised that the woman had taken the trouble to write to him but supposed she had genuinely felt that it was her duty.

David read both letters several times, unable to decide what to do. Eventually, he took his troubles to his commanding officer.

“I’m wondering if it would be possible to take furlough, sir,” he concluded. “I’ll have missed my aunt’s funeral, but I should see the lawyers and work out what’s to be done about the house. It’s a decent property just on the edge of town, with a big garden. I’ll probably rent it out rather than leave it empty. It shouldn’t take much more than a month to arrange everything, but…”

“Take whatever time you need, Major,” Colonel Wheeler said. “I’m sorry to hear about your aunt, but in terms of convenience, this couldn’t be better. We’re in winter quarters and are likely to be for a few months yet. If it was the middle of a campaign, I couldn’t manage without you but we’re not going anywhere until spring.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Wheeler stood up and limped to a side table to pour wine for them both. David got up quickly and went to carry the glasses back to the table. Wheeler had been badly injured during the recent retreat and could only walk using a cane for support. Wheeler hobbled back to his chair and sat down with relief.

“I keep forgetting,” he said. “I’m not accustomed to being waited on. Thank you, Major.”

David sipped the wine. “Is it still painful, sir?”

“Bloody painful, but not as bad as when they first brought me in. I can put weight on it now, but Dr Daniels says I should rest it as much as possible. Davy, I’m conscious that I’ve said everything that’s proper about your aunt and nothing at all about your wife. I don’t know what to say. I know you were separated and there was no possibility of a reconciliation, but she was very young. I am sorry.”

David was grateful. His own emotions about Arabella’s death were still raw and too muddled to make sense of, but he appreciated Wheeler’s tact and also his bravery in raising the matter where another man would have let it pass. Wheeler had known Arabella during the time she had travelled with the army and knew the full circumstances of her various, very public infidelities. One of her first affairs had been with David’s current brigade commander. A recent one had left her carrying a child which could not possibly have been her husband’s and had led to their final separation.

“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say myself. It doesn’t feel real. I hadn’t heard from her since the day she left, but it’s difficult to believe that she’s dead. As you say, she was so young, only just thirty. And she was always so full of life.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Some kind of fever, according to her landlady. There was an outbreak in the town. She was taken into the local hospital but died within a few days.”

“Had she other family?”

“Her father is still alive as far as I know, and there was an aunt. Her mother died a few years ago. I doubt Bella had any contact with her father. When the scandal broke, he wrote to her telling her he never wished to see her or hear from her again. I think I should write to him all the same. He should know she’s dead.”

“What of the child?”

“I don’t know,” David said. “I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl, or if it’s alive. Possibly not, so many children die in infancy and the landlady doesn’t mention it. But I should at least make a push to find out.”

“It’s not your responsibility, Davy,” Colonel Wheeler said gently.

David looked at him, troubled. “I know it isn’t. But sir, who else is going to bother?”

***

Arriving in Southampton on a bright, blustery day, David made enquiries about the best method of travelling to Rye, which was about a hundred miles along the south coast. There were no direct mail coaches, and David objected to the cost of hiring a post chaise, but he was able to find a place on a carrier’s wagon leaving early the following morning. The journey was not particularly fast, but was surprisingly entertaining, as Mr Samuel Rochester regaled his passenger with stories of his life on the road. David slept in small inns along the way and was finally deposited, along with his luggage, at the gates of Oak Lodge just after midday. He had written to inform Miss Carleton of his expected arrival.

The door was opened by a maid in a plain dark gown and white apron. She bobbed a curtsey and stood aside, murmuring that she would call the boy to bring in his box. The boy turned out to be a sturdy manservant who was probably approaching forty. As far as David was aware these were the only two servants apart from the housekeeper.

He stood in the hallway awaiting the appearance of Miss Carleton. A door opened and a young woman emerged from the kitchen area at the back of the house. She wore a respectable dark green woollen gown, with a lace-trimmed cap pinned to very fair hair, and she had a pair of bright blue eyes, a decided nose and an expression which hovered between apprehension and defiance. David, who was hopeless at such things, thought she was probably not much above twenty. The girl approached and gave a little curtsey. David bowed, utterly bewildered.

“Major Cartwright. Welcome home, sir. Harvey will put your luggage in the master bedroom. It’s been cleaned and aired, and I’ll ask Sarah to unpack for you. Unless you’ve brought a valet?”

“No, I haven’t,” David said. “Thank you. Only, I do not perfectly understand…who are you?”

The girl folded her hands at her waist. “I am Miss Carleton, sir, your aunt’s companion and housekeeper. You arranged for my employment.”

David stared at her for a very long time, then surprised out of his customary good manners, he said:

“I’m not sure who I employed, ma’am, but I’m very sure it wasn’t you. The lady who applied for that post gave her age as thirty-four, and I’ll be surprised if you’re older than twenty. Who the devil are you?”

The girl raised well-marked eyebrows and looked down her slightly long nose. “Well you must be surprised then, Major, because I am twenty-four. And I am indeed Miss Carleton. I have been working here since Miss Forbes left at the beginning of the year, and I nursed your aunt through her final illness. Obviously I am in the process of seeking a new post but Mr Bourne, her solicitor, suggested I remain to keep the house in order until your arrival. And to cook your meals for you, unless you intend to do that for yourself, because neither Harvey nor Sarah has the least aptitude for cooking.”

David stared at her open-mouthed. Miss Carleton stared back. There was definitely defiance in her expression now. Eventually David said:

“You lied to me in your application.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because yours was the tenth post I had applied for, and all of the others rejected me on the grounds of my age.”

“I would have done the same.”

“Then it is unnecessary for you to ask why I told an untruth.”

“Was any of your application true?” David asked. He was genuinely curious. Miss Carleton lifted her chin with something like indignation.

“Of course it was. All of it, apart from that one small detail. I am a gentleman’s daughter, I have been used to acting as housekeeper to my parents, who live in Leicester, and I cared for my elderly grandmother before she died.”

David studied her for a long time. “So why were you seeking employment?” he asked finally. “If your parents…”

“My parents do not employ a housekeeper, Major Cartwright, and I was tired of working for nothing. My mother was not grateful for my efforts, I spent my time running the household or visiting my older sisters to help with their children. All my mother’s attention was focused on finding a husband for my youngest sister, in the hope that might repair the family fortunes. I was sick of being an unpaid drudge, so I chose to seek paid employment instead. My father called me undutiful, and my mother prophesied that I would ruin my reputation and come to a bad end, but so far, I think it has gone rather well. Until today, that is.”

David could think of nothing at all to say. He stood looking at her, struggling to think of a suitable response. Miss Carleton looked back, daring him to speak. The silence went on.

Abruptly, the girl straightened her back and bobbed another neat curtsey. “Would you like some tea, Major? I can serve it in the small parlour. Neither the drawing room or the dining room have been much used this past year, although I have cleaned the whole house and removed the holland covers. I baked a cake this morning.”

“Thank you,” David said faintly. “That would be very welcome. No, don’t trouble yourself to show me the way. I know the house very well.”

The small parlour was situated at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. At this time of year, it was a tangle of damp greenery, but David remembered it as a riot of colour in the spring and summer. His aunt had loved gardening during her younger days.

It was obvious that Miss Carleton had made the room her own. A cosy arrangement of furniture around the fireplace included her sewing box, and a partly darned stocking lay neatly folded on top. On another small table was an inlaid portable writing desk. Against the far wall was a small table and two chairs, which suggested that Miss Carleton dined in this room as well. It was common for upper servants to take meals in the kitchen or in their own room, but Miss Carleton was effectively mistress of this small household and David did not blame her for making herself comfortable.

She returned shortly, shepherding the maid who carried the tea tray. David ran his eyes over it and looked at the maid. “Bring another cup, please. Miss Carleton will be joining me for tea.”

The girl did so. David indicated that Miss Carleton should pour. The tea was welcome after his long journey and the cake was excellent. Both improved David’s mood considerably. He watched her sip her tea.

“How did you persuade Miss Forbes to collude with your falsehood, Miss Carleton?”

The girl gave him a look. “I did not,” she said. “She had no idea, of course, that I had lied about my age. She expressed surprise at how young I was, but once she saw what I could do, she did not mention it again. Why should she? I can cook, I can keep house and I was very good with your aunt. She liked me.”

David could not help smiling. “I don’t suppose you gave her much choice, ma’am, you’re a very decided young woman.”

The blue eyes were unexpectedly misty with unshed tears. “I was very fond of your aunt. Even though she was confused, she was so kind. And she could be very funny. I am sorry she’s gone, sir.”

“So am I,” David said. “I’ve not inspected the rest of the house yet, ma’am, but I don’t need to, I can see you know your work. The place is immaculate. Thank you for your efforts.”

“Thank you for acknowledging them.” Miss Carleton sniffed audibly. “I’m sorry I deceived you, sir. It was wrong of me, but I was becoming desperate.”

“What will you do now? You mentioned seeking another post, but have you not thought of going home?”

“Not unless I have to,” the girl said. “I have written several applications, and I shall continue to do so. I am not sure if you intend to sell the house, Major, but if so, I will naturally leave as soon as you wish me to do so. I am not wholly estranged from my family, they will have me back if needs be. I hope I don’t have to though, my mother will be unbearable.”

Unexpectedly, David laughed. “Is she really that bad?”

“Yes. She has never got over my father’s reversal of fortune. He made several bad investments, and my mother was extravagant. She also had five daughters. Marrying us off successfully has been the aim of her life, and she tried hard to maintain her position in society in the hope that a good marriage could save the family fortunes, but it was not to be.”

“But your elder sisters married, I think you said?”

“Yes, eventually. But not the kind of marriage my mother had in mind. They are respectably established, with a collection of children, but none of them could afford to give anything away to my parents. Recently they were obliged to sell Carleton Hall. It has been in the family for almost two hundred years, and it was a great blow.”

“I can imagine it was,” David said. Now that he was beginning to relax, he decided he rather liked this straightforward young woman. She was easy to talk to, with no affectations or pretensions to grandeur. David, who had married a woman full of affectations and pretensions, had developed a dislike of both.

“Not that they are in any way destitute, you understand,” Miss Carleton said. “They own the house in Leicester, and it is a perfectly good house. A little larger than this, and not as old. With the proceeds of the sale of Carleton House and the estate and the income from my father’s remaining investments, they could live perfectly comfortably. They could even afford a housekeeper. But my mother still has ambitions. My youngest sister, Katherine is just seventeen and is by far the prettiest of all of us. My mother is saving up to give her a London Season in the hope that she will attract a wealthy or titled gentleman and we shall all be saved. Well, at least, I shall not be saved because I have ruined my reputation by seeking paid employment as a housekeeper instead of doing the same job at home and being paid nothing.”

David laughed aloud. “I do hope it is not that bad,” he said. “Although now you have explained your situation, I do have some qualms about staying here myself. You are, when all is said and done, a young unmarried lady and…”

“If you continue in that vein, Major Cartwright, I shall not be answerable for what I may do,” Miss Carleton said in freezing tones. “I am your housekeeper. Your servant. Your paid employee. Nobody gives a fig about such things with the staff. And if I had not told you my background, neither would you.”

David took a second slice of cake. “Well either way, I’m not going to stay at an inn. The cooking here is far too good. Miss Carleton, I have no set plans, but I won’t be here for long. I have to see my aunt’s solicitor to find out how things stand, and then I have to make a journey to Shrewsbury on a separate family matter. I had not thought of selling the house. I may rent it out while I remain with the army. I’m fond of this place, I spent a lot of time here as a boy, fishing off the quay and listening to smuggler’s tales from the grooms.”

“I’m glad you said that sir. Your aunt would be happy to think that you intend to settle here one day.” Miss Carleton stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be needed in the kitchen. Will you be dining at home today?”

“Yes, thank you. If it is not too much trouble.”

“It is my job, Major Cartwright. You pay me.”

“You seem keen to remind me of it. I am not sure what your usual arrangements are, but will you join me for dinner? It seems foolish for two people to eat in solitary splendour, and there is nobody to mind.”

Miss Carleton studied him for a moment, then smiled broadly. “Do you know, Major, when you arrived and looked at me so censoriously, I decided that you were a very strait-laced gentleman, but I think I was wrong.”

David found himself smiling back at her. “I think I was in my younger days,” he said. “Army life alters your priorities. Although it is unlikely to change my opinion that you should return to Leicester and make your peace with your parents. At least for the Christmas season.”

***

Helen found cooking a very soothing activity. The kitchen at Oak Lodge was old-fashioned, but well designed and after almost a year in post, she felt at home there. The thought that she might not be here for much longer saddened her. She had been telling the truth when she told Major Cartwright that she was happy in her position.

Helen understood she had potentially committed social suicide in taking the post as Mrs Everton’s companion-housekeeper. It was one thing for a young lady in straitened circumstances to seek employment as a governess or companion, or even as a schoolmistress in some respectable establishment. But cooking and cleaning placed one firmly among the ranks of the upper servants. Helen had accepted the post in a spirit of seething resentment at the constant, unreasonable demands of her family and the complete lack of appreciation for the work she did, but she had not really intended to stay for so long. When the expected letters began to arrive from her family, pleading, cajoling, and castigating her rash decision, Helen had expected she would probably give in and go home. To her surprise, she realised she was happy where she was and wanted to stay.

Taking care of Mrs Everton was not difficult and with two servants to assist her, and most of the rooms in the house unused, Helen’s housekeeping duties took considerably less time than when she was living at home. Her mother employed a cook, but Mrs Beech could manage only plain dishes, and when the Carletons entertained, it was Helen who planned elaborate menus and spent long hours in the kitchen preparing them. She enjoyed the challenge of complicated dishes but was tired of being used as an unpaid servant, while her elder sisters clamoured, from their various households, for her equally free services as nursemaid and governess. Her youngest sister Katherine spent hours studying her reflection, dreaming of a titled husband, demanding Helen’s help with refurbishing her gowns and pouting when Helen told her shortly that she did not have time.

“You are so grumpy, Nell. It isn’t as though you did not choose to remain as the daughter at home. Everybody knows that you had every opportunity to marry and have a home of your own, and you refused two perfectly good offers.”

“One offer was from Mr Grant the solicitor,” Helen said, trying not to grit her teeth. “He is forty-five and drinks so much port that his nose looks like an overripe plum. The other was from the curate, who informed my father that his interest had alighted upon me because he thought it his duty, as a man of God, to eschew all thoughts of beauty in favour of a plain woman with a light hand for the pastry. He further said that he thought in time he would be able to repress my tendency to levity and teach me to show greater modesty in public. Even Mother thought that was a bad idea.”

“Well it is your own fault, Nell. You are not at all plain, you have beautiful hair and lovely eyes. You simply refuse to try.”

“I have the Carleton nose, Kitty.”

“It is a perfectly nice nose, if a little more prominent than others. If you would look at your wardrobe and curl your hair and learn to flirt a little, you would do so much better. Look at Eliza. Nobody thought she would do so well.”

“I have the greatest respect for Mr Ingram, Kitty, but if I had to be married to a man that dull I should expire within a year.”

Her younger sister laughed. “Well I shall not care how dull my husband is, dearest Nell, as long as he is rich. Now come and look at my old blue and tell me if you think we can remove the train.”

Helen paused in rolling out her pie crust, surprised to realise that there were tears in her eyes. She blinked them back firmly. She missed Katherine’s laughter and occasional sisterly confidences, but she did not miss being expected to act as a ladies’ maid every time her sister was invited out. She supposed that Major Cartwright was correct, and she should go home to her family for the Christmas season, but she was surprised at how little she wanted to.

It felt strange to sit across the table from the Major at dinner. Helen had never eaten in the dining room. She instructed Harvey and Sarah to remove all the extra leaves from the big table and set out the various dishes on the polished sideboard so that they could serve themselves. Major Cartwright went to investigate the wine cellar and as Helen filled their plates, poured two glasses of cool white wine. Helen eyed it suspiciously and the Major laughed.

“I take it you haven’t been raiding my aunt’s cellar?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been down there. She liked a glass of wine with her dinner though, right up to the end. I remember you sent her some, once or twice, and it pleased her very much to receive the gift, though I’m not sure she understood where it came from.”

He smiled. “I’m glad she got some enjoyment from it. She and I shared a liking for good wine and when I first joined the army and began to travel, I used to try to send her some local wine from wherever I was stationed. When I was in Naples…”

He broke off abruptly and Helen said nothing. She sipped the wine, enjoying the crisp, fruity taste of it. Her employer did the same. She could see him considering, wondering what he should tell her, and whether it was at all suitable for him to tell a housekeeper anything at all. He would not normally have shared details of his personal life with an unmarried young lady from a respectable family whom he had just met, but then he would not have been dining alone with such a person either.

“I was married,” Cartwright said abruptly. “I don’t suppose you knew, since my aunt was already very forgetful by the time you arrived. She cannot have told you anything about it. Naples was my first posting after we married. Less than a year and Arabella was already very bored with me and wishing she had waited for a better prospect.”

“I know about your wife,” Helen said. She saw his head snap up and the brown eyes darken in sudden anger and wished for a moment that she had not spoken.

“Who told you?”

“Miss Forbes. She had been with your aunt for so many years, I think they were more like family than employer and servant. I asked, very casually, if you were single or a widower. I thought it unusual that it should be a gentleman placing the advertisement for such a post. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Major, it wasn’t my intention. Miss Forbes was not gossiping, but she said that she thought I ought to know in case I did come across any idle gossip in the town.”

“Miss Forbes was probably right. What did she tell you?”

“That your marriage had not been a success and that you were separated from your wife. She told me that Mrs Everton used to say that she thought your wife a fool for not appreciating you.”

Cartwright gave a very faint smile and began to eat again. “My aunt was invariably biased in my favour, Miss Carleton. She and Arabella never got on well, they were too different. She tried to persuade me against the match. I had very little money, but when I was younger I was ambitious and thought I could make my own way in the world.”

“Have you not done so?”

“Yes, I think I have. But it did not come fast enough for Arabella.” Cartwright hesitated, seeming to recollect that he was talking to a stranger. “My apologies, Miss Carleton, this is a very unsuitable conversation. Did you make this pastry? It’s excellent, I feel very spoiled.”

Helen allowed him to turn the conversation neatly away from personal matters. She asked him about his service in the army and found it unexpectedly interesting. He had served in Italy, in Portugal and in Spain, with a spell in Ireland. He spoke little of the battles he had fought, but a great deal about the places he had seen and the people he had met. There was nothing boastful or vainglorious about Major David Cartwright, but Helen thought that he had seen more and done more than most people of her acquaintance. She did not usually find it easy to talk to people she did not know well, particularly gentlemen, but as they finished their meal and Helen rose to clear the table, she was aware of a sense of regret that it was coming to an end.

“I should get these to the kitchen, sir.”

“Let the maid do that. Please, sit down and join me in a glass of port. Or if you prefer, you can watch me drinking it. I feel as though I have bored you senseless with my army tales all through dinner and given you no chance to talk about yourself.”

Helen subsided, watching Sarah clear the plates. “I’ve already told you about my situation, sir. I left home in a temper with my ungrateful family. I remained because I liked it here. But I suppose that unless I find another situation as much to my taste as this I shall have to go home.”

“Do you think it will be a problem for you? Socially, I mean?”

“I don’t suppose for one moment my mother has told anybody that I have been employed as a housekeeper, let alone a cook. She will have said that I am acting as companion to an elderly lady, which is perfectly respectable, you know. Anyway, I had no social life.”

“None at all?”

“I used to go to parties when I was Kitty’s age. But I didn’t really enjoy them that much. Dancing and trying to flirt and speaking nothing but inanities never suited me.”

“I can imagine. That doesn’t mean you have nothing to say. I’ve really enjoyed this. May I…that is, I shall be here for a few days, seeing the lawyers and working out how things stand. After that, I am travelling to Shrewsbury on business. But I would like it if you would dine with me again while I’m here. As you are, even temporarily, my housekeeper.”

Helen laughed. “As you are, for a short time longer, my employer, sir, I am at your disposal.”

As she rose to leave finally, he escorted her into the hallway and bowed. “Thank you again, ma’am, for the meal and the company. Both were excellent.”

“I enjoyed it too, sir, although I’m aware that I’ve stepped above my station this evening.”

“Or back into the station you were born to, depending on your perspective. Look, about earlier. The conversation about my wife. I should tell you, that she recently died. A fever outbreak. It was very sudden.”

Helen felt a little shock. “Oh no. Oh Major, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. I’m going to Shrewsbury to see where she’s buried. I want to make sure she has a proper gravestone. There are some things I need to collect, and I’ll pay any debts that I can find out about.”

Helen studied him for a long moment. Major Cartwright was unexceptional, apart from a pair of very fine brown eyes and a rather nice smile. Helen wondered how old he was. She thought possibly in his thirties, although his self-contained manner may have made him seem older than he was.

“I think that is the right thing to do, Major. I hope you won’t find it too distressing. I wish, while you are here, that you would furnish me with a list of what you most like to eat. And if there is anything else I can do for you – laundry or mending or suchlike – please let me know. With your aunt gone, I have so little to do.”

Cartwright smiled, and she could see the warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll probably take you up on that. But there is one thing you should do. Write to your family, ma’am, and tell them you’ll be home for Christmas, even if it is just a visit.”

“What will you do for Christmas, sir?”

“I’ll stay here and make do with Sarah’s cooking.”

“It isn’t very good.”

“It will still be better than what I ate during the retreat from Madrid, ma’am. Goodnight.”

***

David decided to hire a post-chaise for his journey to Shrewsbury. He had quite enjoyed his adventure with the carrier’s cart, but Shrewsbury was a lot further and David had no wish to spend weeks on the road. He admitted to himself, with some amusement, that some of his desire to have this journey over and done with, was because he wanted to get back to Rye before his eccentric housekeeper left for Christmas with her family.

He had not formally given Helen her notice, though he knew he should have done. He was sure that once she was back home, she would decide to stay, and write to tell him so. So far he had made no arrangements with the lawyer about advertising the house for rent. He had asked Helen, during her remaining weeks, to go through his aunt’s personal possessions, dispose of the clothing however she thought best and pack up the rest. When he returned, he would go through the boxes for any small items he wanted to keep and make arrangements to put the rest into storage, along with the contents of the wine cellar and a few of the finer items of furniture. He could manage all of that without the help of the estimable Miss Carleton, but he did want to see her again to say goodbye. He had taken a liking to the girl, and she had made his week at his aunt’s house thoroughly enjoyable.

He left Helen indulging in an orgy of cooking and food preparation. Clearly the thought of him spending the Christmas feast at the mercy of Sarah’s cooking troubled her mind, and David suspected he would be left with a larder stuffed with enough puddings, cured hams and pies to feed half his company. He wondered if she would have to do the same work over again for her unappreciative family and hoped that her mother had the decency to employ a proper cook for the season, so that her prodigal daughter could take her rightful place as a family member. Then again, remembering the sight of Helen in the kitchen, singing Christmas carols, with flour on the end of her nose and her hair curling in little wisps around her face with the steam from the puddings, David wondered if in fact, Helen might be perfectly happy in the kitchen if her family would just show some appreciation.

David had been to Shrewsbury once before, in the early days of his courtship of Arabella, when she had taken him to spend a few days with her aunt who lived in a graceful eighteenth century house close to the Abbey. He had rather liked the ancient town and had hoped that Arabella might settle there with her child, finding some respectable occupation and using the opportunity to make a new start. Mrs Hetherington’s lodging house suggested that she had not managed to do so.

The lodging house was better than he had expected, and Mrs Hetherington was a dark-eyed handsome woman in her thirties, who kept a clean house, served plain food to those lodgers who required it and showed a rather touching reticence at sharing with her widower the details of Arabella’s life. David set aside his awkwardness in favour of plain speaking and over a good cup of tea at the big square kitchen table, managed to drag the information from his reluctant informant.

“I wouldn’t normally have let a room to a woman like her,” Mrs Hetherington said. “Not that I haven’t had lady boarders before. Mostly it’s gentlemen, though. Music masters and young officers and those fallen on hard times. I don’t take the labouring classes, my rooms are too good for that. I even had a poet once. I take the money up front for some of them, mind, being as they come from a class used to paying their bills when they feel like it. Still, I don’t have much trouble. The rooms are clean and well furnished, and I’ve got three gentlemen who have been with me a long time. The ladies come and go. Governesses and the like, between jobs. I feel sorry for them. Nowhere to go and no money for expensive lodgings. I keep the top two attic rooms for the ladies. They can be private up there, and I let them share my sitting room while they’re here.”

“And my wife?”

“Anybody could see she’d fallen on hard times. And anybody could see that she’d no intention of finding a respectable position as a governess or a companion, although that was the story she told me when she applied for the room. Still, she’d the money to pay and both rooms were empty, so I let her have one of them, providing she paid in advance for the month and didn’t bring anyone back to the room. She laughed when I told her that. ‘Mrs Hetherington,’ she said. ‘My gentlemen friends do not frequent common lodging houses. Although perhaps they should, this is the most comfortable room I have occupied for months.’”

David winced and tried not to show it. “She was here for five months?”

“She had the room for five months. She paid me, regular as clockwork and I never had to ask her for it. I wouldn’t say she stayed here for five months, mind, she was in and out. Sometimes she’d be here for a week or two. Slept half the day, ate her meals in her room and was out in the evening, dressed up like a duchess. Sometimes I’d see nothing of her for a month. I always imagined, begging your pardon, sir, that she’d found a gentleman friend who was taking care of her.”

“I’m sure you were right, ma’am.”

“I’d no idea she was truly wed. She called herself Mrs, but they often do.”

“We were separated.”

“It’s a tragedy. She wasn’t a respectable woman, sir. She had this way about her, like she was laughing at herself almost. But she was never anything but civil to me.”

David remembered the many times when Arabella had failed to be civil to anybody and was obscurely glad. Perhaps in her darker times, she had learned something that comfort, and prosperity had failed to teach her.

“Where is she buried?”

“At St Mary’s, sir. The Rector will know the details.”

The Rector was surprised but sympathetic. He led David to the plain unmarked grave and left him alone for a while. When David went to find him, he provided sherry and spiritual guidance in the Rectory and gave David the name of a reputable stonemason who could erect a gravestone.

David spent the night at the Lion Hotel, then returned to Mrs Hetherington’s lodging house the following day. She led him up two flights of stairs to a small room under the eaves, where a trunk, a wooden box and several bags contained all that was left of Arabella Cartwright’s short, tragic life. David sat on the narrow bed and cried, remembering their courtship, the first heady days of their marriage when all he could think about was making love to her, and the first painful realisation that their love was not after all based on solid ground, but on the shifting sands of her discontent and relentless pursuit of something better.

Eventually, David pulled himself together and repacked the bags and boxes carefully, piling them up for collection by the carter whom he had arranged to take them to the Lion Hotel. There was another call he should make, although he was not looking forward to it. It must have been ten years or more since he had last seen Mrs Gladstone, Arabella’s aunt, but he remembered the house well from his previous visit. The butler took his card with an expression of surprise and asked him to wait. He returned soon afterwards and ushered David into a panelled book room where a portly gentleman who looked to be around forty came forward to greet him.

“Major Cartwright. This is a surprise and no mistake, you’re the last person I expected to see here. On furlough, eh?”

David shook his hand. “Yes, sir, for a short time. I had family affairs to attend to, both here and on the south coast. I was hoping to speak to Mrs Gladstone.”

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid, Major. My mother died almost a year ago. Smallpox outbreak. Very sad. Jasper Gladstone, at your service. I don’t think we ever met.”

“No, I think you were in India when I visited last. It was a long time ago.”

“Aye, that’ll be right. I left the company service about two years ago and set up in business for myself in Bristol. When my mother died, I inherited the house, so my family moved here. I still keep rooms in Bristol, it’s where my offices are. I think I can guess what’s brought you to Shrewsbury, Major. A bad business.”

“You heard that she died, then?”

“Yes, though I didn’t wish to. The Rector took it upon himself to inform me. Damned piece of impudence, I called it. I told him I’d heard nothing of my cousin since she disgraced herself and didn’t consider her any business of mine. And frankly, Major, I’m surprised you don’t feel the same way.”

David did not speak immediately. He had no wish to be hypocritical and he thought that if Arabella’s death had not coincided with that of his aunt, he would probably not have asked for furlough to visit her grave. He had tried hard to set aside his feelings for Arabella a long time ago and he almost resented the stirring up of painful memories. At the same time, she had lived as his wife for six years and he did not think he could have dismissed all thought of her as Gladstone appeared to think he should.

“As I said, I had other family business to attend to,” he said finally. “Since I was in England, I thought it right to see where she was buried and arrange for a gravestone.”

“Women like her shouldn’t be given the luxury of a proper burial,” Gladstone said shortly. “Sherry, Major? Throw them in the ground and forget about them, that’s what I say. The grief she brought to her poor parents, and my mother. And you, of course.”

He held out the sherry glass. David took it and set it on the table, having no desire to drink it. “I understand Arabella came here to have her child.”

“So I believe. I wasn’t here then, of course, or I’d have put a stop to that. My mother was always sentimental about my cousin. I think she had some notion of finding somebody to take the brat and rehabilitating Bella, but I could have told her that wouldn’t wash. My cousin was a whore, Major. A bad ‘un, through and through. You can’t help a woman like that, and I wouldn’t have tried.”

David’s anger was beginning to settle into a cold disdain. “I am sure you would not,” he said. “Will you tell me what happened after the child was born?”

“She stayed for a month or two. I wrote to my mother to inform her that we would be unable to visit her, of course, while she had that woman and her bastard in the house. I’ve children of my own, I couldn’t have them exposed to that kind of thing. Once Bella was back on her feet after the birth it went pretty much as you’d expect. She took up with some man again – don’t know who he was, some sort of financier I believe, invested in canals and bridges and engineering works. She took off in the middle of the night with all her fine clothing, leaving my mother with the brat on her hands. I don’t know how long it lasted, but not long. She wrote to my mother begging to come back, but this time the old lady had the sense to say no, though she kept the brat. Bella had a small income of some kind.”

“It was very little, just the interest on her marriage settlement. Pin money only.”

“I think she took rooms in town and made up for any shortfall by selling herself to whoever would have her.”

David felt very sick. He had guessed the bare bones of the story, but hearing it related so brutally hurt all over again. He hoped his distress did not show on his face, because he did not wish to give this man a present of his feelings. He would not willingly have given him the time of day.

“What happened to the child?” he asked in neutral tones. “Did it contract the smallpox as well?”

“Lord, no. My mother had the nursemaid keep it isolated. No, it outlived her, that’s for sure. Probably dead by now, though. Not many of them survive beyond their first year in those public institutions, do they?”

“Public institution?”

“You know. Charity wards. Orphan asylums. Workhouses. Wherever they put the little bastards nobody wants. The Rector might know if you’re interested, though I can’t think why you should be. It wasn’t your brat and I doubt she even knew who sired it. And don’t look at me like that, Major. It was nothing to do with me. When we’d buried my mother, I left the whole thing in the hands of my man of business. He paid off the staff, got the house in order and took the little bastard to the Parish and dumped it there. What in God’s name was I expected to do about it? She made her bed, my cousin Arabella, and if she’d cared about that child, she’d never have run off again. She’s better off dead, where she can’t bring any more disgrace to this family, and her bastard with her. Let’s drink to it.”

David looked at Gladstone, a florid, prosperous-looking man with thinning hair and a substantial paunch, as he raised his sherry glass and tossed back the warm amber liquid. He reached for his own glass, waited politely for Gladstone to finish drinking, then threw the contents of it fully into the man’s face. Gladstone gave a squawk of surprise, scrubbing the liquid away with his sleeve as it stung his eyes.

“You…you…how dare you, sir? To come into my house, acting as though your bitch of a wife should matter to me, and then…we’ll see about that, sir.”

He surged forward. David waited for him to be completely off balance, then punched him once, very hard. Blood spurted from the bulbous nose and Gladstone fell back, clutching his face as he hit the floor with a crash which rattled the glasses on the polished sideboard. David had only taken up boxing a year earlier in winter quarters, under the tuition of a friend in his brigade. He had never punched a man in anger in his life before and he was astonished at how satisfying it was. He stood for a moment watching Gladstone bleed onto what looked like an expensive Persian rug.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Gladstone. Please don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

It had started to rain as David made his way back to St Mary’s Church. He found the Rector in his study and blurted out his story and his concerns with little regard for good manners. He was too angry to care what the man thought. The Rector heard him out patiently.

“I am sorry, Major Cartwright. I can see this has all been a shock to you. I respect your compassion and your charity in very difficult circumstances but I’m afraid I have no information about your wife’s child. Mrs Gladstone was not a member of my church, and I did not know much about her family, although we had met socially on occasion. Naturally…Shrewsbury is not a large town, and there is always gossip. Many people felt that Mrs Gladstone was wrong to have taken in her niece in such circumstances, and I know there was a general feeling that she would never be accepted back into polite society, but no such attempt was made. When I was asked by the Parish to arrange for your wife’s burial, there was no mention of any family. I had rather assumed that if there was a child, he or she must have died.”

“Is it possible to find out?” David asked. “What would happen to such a child? Is there an orphan asylum?”

“The parishes have combined in Shrewsbury, to fund a House of Industry where the indigent and the sick are tended. Older children have their own facilities and schooling within the House, but it is customary for the Parish to send babies out to nurse in local households.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Women are paid to take care of the child until it becomes old enough to enter the House of Industry. I presume this child would be very young?”

“Around eighteen months, I suppose. There must be records of where such children are sent.”

“You should apply to the workhouse clerk, Mr Jackson. Wait, I will write a brief note to him. He knows me and it will probably speed your enquiries along.” The Rector reached for his pen, then paused and looked at David. “Major – what do you intend to do if the child is alive?”

David was unable to reply. He realised he had no idea.

***

Mr Jackson scanned the Rector’s letter and gave a sigh which blew the papers about on his desk. He got up and went to collect a ledger from a shelf. David watched as he ran a bony finger down a column, muttering to himself. He turned a page, then another, and began a tuneless whistle, peering at the unintelligible scrawl which passed for writing. David wondered if it was Mr Jackson’s own writing and if so, why he did not learn to read it more quickly.

“Aha!” Jackson said triumphantly. “Aha! As I thought. Now we have him. Now we have him, indeed.”

“Him?” David said quickly.

“Him. A boy. The boy. Delivered to this establishment on the date in question by Gareth Southern, clerk to Mr Timothy Prestcote. It says here…well now. It says the boy is an orphan.”

“Does it not say the mother’s name?” David asked.

“It does,” Jackson said doubtfully, peering so closely that his nose almost touched the page. “Difficult to read it…Cartridge…no, Cartwright, I think. Looks like Billy. Billy Cartwright. Funny name for a female.”

“Bella,” David said, trying to sound patient.

“Is it? Oh. Oh yes, could be. Yes, I think it is.” Jackson sounded pleased. “Bella Cartwright, prostitute. Presumed deceased.”

Jackson froze. On his desk beside the Rector’s note was the calling card David had given him. David watched as he read the name again and made the connection, then saw his eyes widen. He looked up very slowly and suddenly there was a wealth of apprehension in his expression.

“Oh. Oh, my. Major Cartwright?”

“As I told you earlier.”

“Oh my. Oh dear. How awkward. How very embarrassing. I have no memory for names, sir, but in this case I ought to have. Oh my. But this child…he cannot be related to you, surely?”

“I think you’ll find he is,” David said pleasantly. “Was no effort made to trace his mother?”

“Well no, sir. Not given that she was reported to be dead. I cannot understand…was she not dead?”

“Not then,” David said. “She left the child in the care of her aunt, Mrs Gladstone, who sadly died soon afterwards.”

“Gladstone? Do you refer to the family of Mr Jasper Gladstone, Major? But this is extraordinary. He is a member of our board. I cannot think how such a terrible mistake came to be made.”

“I can,” David said briefly. “Am I to understand that the boy is still alive? Where can I find him?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed. At least, according to our records. He was sent out to nurse with Mrs Bonel, and we’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

“But?”

“They don’t always tell us straight away, sir. If the child dies. Sometimes they bury them quietly and keep taking the money. Eventually the yearly inspection comes around and then they’ll come forward and claim the death was recent.”

David felt sick again. “Annual inspections for a baby that young?” he said. “Is that all?”

“We’ve not the time or the staff to do more, sir. I can give you Mrs Bonel’s address if you want to visit the boy.”

David found the cottage easily enough. There was a narrow frontage open to the River Dee, with chickens scrabbling in a fenced yard and a strong stench of excrement and urine. David paused by the door, taking a deep breath. His stomach was churning so badly, he was worried he might vomit and for the first time ever he felt the urge to flee in the face of the enemy. Before he had the opportunity to do so however, he heard the cry. It was a long wail of misery which drowned out the cackling of the hens and the steady rush of the river, swollen with winter rains.

Inside the smell was stronger, but there was no sign of life in the main living area of the cottage. David walked through to a small doorway at the back and out into a muddy yard, where two pigs snuffled around, splashed with mud, and snorting indignantly. There was still no sign of occupation, but at the back of the yard was a rough wooden lean-to and the wail was stronger, floating out into the freezing winter air. It sounded like a young child. David walked across the yard and went in through the door.

He found the child in a rough wooden cot, little more than a box, built high against the wall of the shed. He was dressed in a linen smock which was smeared with his own dirt. There were several reeking, threadbare blankets in the cot and the child was crying and shivering, his voice high and thin in the chill air. He was thin and pale and his hair was a coppery red.

“There, then, what’s that yelling about, it’s not nearly time for your dinner, and if you don’t shut up…”

David turned. The woman was thin herself, with sharp features and brown eyes, wearing a respectable brown dress and a warm woollen shawl. She looked irritated, but at the sight of David she froze, ran her eyes over him then managed a wholly false smile. She dropped a little curtsey.

“Good day to you, sir. May I help you?”

“Mrs Bonel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve come about the child. I understand he was put out to nurse last year by the Parish?”

“That’s right, sir. A poor little orphan mite. I’ve looked after him as if he was my own, haven’t I, poppet?”

The child had stopped wailing and was staring at David, one grubby fist pushed into his mouth.

David walked forward. He had spent the walk down to the cottage calculating the boy’s age and decided he must be around seventeen months, though he was small, probably through poor nourishment. David studied the child and saw Bella’s beautiful hazel eyes looking back at him with wary interest.

“What’s his name?”

“Whatever you want it to be. He doesn’t…”

David spun around in sudden fury. “What name did they give you for him, you slovenly bitch? Any more of this and I’ll have the magistrate down here, and if you’ve nothing to hide from them I’ll be very surprised.”

The woman visibly flinched. “George. They called him George.”

George had been the name of both David’s and Arabella’s fathers. He looked back at the child. “George? Georgie?”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then, cautiously, he shifted onto his knees, reached for the wooden slats of the cot and pulled himself up to his feet. David looked at the streaks of filth on the smock and consciously reined in his anger. He studied the child. The child stared back. After a moment, David reached out and touched one of the tiny hands clutching the edge of the cot. George flinched away as if expecting a blow and David felt an overwhelming wave of protective tenderness.

“He’s cold. And he seems terrified.”

“It’s his own fault, sir, he throws off his blankets. And they’re like that at this age. Skittish, like.”

David kept his eyes on the child and reached past him into the cot to feel the blankets. As he had suspected, they were soaked.

“Does he have any other clothing?”

“Another gown, but it’s wet. I do my best, but I can’t keep up with the laundry.”

“Then get me a dry blanket to wrap him in. I’m taking him with me.”

“Sir, without proper authorisation…”

David turned to look at her. “You will receive authorisation before the end of the day,” he said in icy tones. “Get me a blanket for him. Now.”

Afterwards, seated in the post-chaise as it rattled its way towards London and then on towards Rye, David looked back over that long day and found it hard to recognise himself. He had been carried on a wave of indignant fury which swept aside all difficulties and opposition. His years as an army quartermaster had given him a talent for organisation and the ability to juggle too many tasks, all of them urgent. David was thankful for the experience since he did not think he would ever have made it into the coach early the following morning otherwise.

He was also thankful for the support of Mrs Hetherington, who greeted his arrival with the child with blank astonishment.

“I know I’m imposing on you, ma’am, but it’s only for today. I’ve nobody else to turn to in Shrewsbury, and I’ve a great deal to do to be ready to travel with him tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand,” the woman said, studying the crying child. “Who is he? Where does he come from? Dear God, look at the state of him. He’s filthy and he looks half-starved.”

“He is half-starved,” David said grimly. “It’s a disgrace, sending a child out to a place like that. She was keeping him in an outhouse, with the pigs and the chickens. I could kill her, and the Parish Board along with her, except that I don’t have time.”

“Is he your wife’s child, Major?”

“Yes. She can’t have known where he was, though. She left him with her family. She probably thought it best for him, but when her aunt died, that odorous piece of pig’s excrement Jasper Gladstone sent him to the parish. His own cousin’s child. When I’ve got time, I’m going to ensure that his reputation in this town ends up in the sewer. I don’t need to be here to do that, I can write letters, and I intend to ask for the assistance of my Brigadier’s wife in the matter. She will enjoy the challenge.”

Mrs Hetherington looked amused. “And I thought you such a quiet gentleman,” she said. “But Major…he may be your wife’s child, but surely he isn’t yours? A gentleman like you wouldn’t have let her take his son away like this. Are you sure you can just remove him from the Parish because you want to? There will be regulations.”

“If they try to stop me, I will take their regulations and shove them where they deserve to be. But they won’t. They can’t. He is my wife’s child, born within wedlock. We were legitimately married, that never changed. If I say he is my son, and can prove she was my wife, there isn’t a damned thing they can do about it.”

Mrs Hetherington gaped at him. “Sir…are you sure?”

George had stopped crying, probably because he was too exhausted to continue. He was watching David from enormous tear-drenched eyes, but David thought that he seemed more relaxed in his arms. He looked back at the child and finally admitted to himself what he had been unable to recognise two years earlier.

“Yes,” he said. “Oh God, yes. I should have done it then. I should have gone to her and offered to acknowledge the child. Because I wanted a child so badly that it hurt. Arabella didn’t really, and when I found out, I was furious. It seemed so unjust, because I realised that it might have been my fault that we couldn’t have children. Which meant I might never be able to have a child.” David stopped, realising that he was babbling. “I’m sorry, this is the most inappropriate conversation I have ever had.”

“Lord bless, you sir, I run a lodging house. You’d be amazed what people tell me. Leave him with me. I’ll get him bathed and fed, and I’ll send Sally to the market, if you’ll leave the money. There’s a booth that sells used clothing, they’ll have baby clothes there. I don’t know how you’ll manage him on the road, mind. He’s not clean yet, so you’ll need to change his clouts and wash him, and it’s not work for a gentleman.”

“I’ll learn, you can show me. It’s only for three days, and once I’m back in Rye I can hire a nursemaid. I’m going to have to write to extend my furlough, but they’ll understand. It’s winter quarters. Mrs Hetherington, thank you. I will never forget what you’ve done for me today.”

It took longer to reach Rye on the return journey. It was necessary to stop more frequently because of George, and overnight stops were more complicated. David had no experience of taking care of a child, but Mrs Hetherington gave him an emergency lesson in feeding, bathing, and changing clouts in half a day. The journey was a nightmare of a crying child, desperate inn staff and irritable post boys.

After two days of almost constant wailing, and fighting against every attempt to comfort him, George fell suddenly into an exhausted sleep in David’s arms. He barely awoke as David carried him into the Swan Inn. The landlord was more sympathetic than on the previous two nights, and sent a chamber maid to wash, change and sit with the boy so that David could eat in peace in the dining room. After two glasses of burgundy, David was almost falling asleep at the table. He went up to his room and found that the girl had just changed George and was settling him into the bed.

“Will you be all right with him, sir? You should have a nursemaid with you.”

“She fell ill, and I couldn’t delay my journey,” David said with a smile. It was the story he had told all along, not really caring who believed it. This girl apparently did and gave him a somewhat misty smile.

“Bless you, sir, I’ve never seen such a devoted father. Have you much further to go?”

“No, we’ll be home before tomorrow evening.”

“I’m glad to hear it, you’re in need of a rest. With your leave, sir, I’ll come back in the morning and get him fed and ready while you have your breakfast.”

“Thank you. You’ve been so kind.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

David undressed, then checked that there was water in the jug on the washstand and that there were clean clouts available in case of disaster, then he got into bed. The boy lay beside him, long lashed eyes watching him curiously. Over the past days he had seemed to David to see every human contact as a potential threat, and David tried not to imagine the miserable existence that had taught such a young child that nobody was to be trusted. Now, though, he lay wakeful but calm. David looked back at him.

“Are you in the mood for conversation, Georgie? I’m not sure I’ll be much use at it, I’m so tired. Still, we can give it a try. I’m your Papa. You don’t know it yet, and nor did I until just recently, but we’ve a lot of time to get acquainted. At least we will have, when Bonaparte is gone, and I can come home to you. In the meantime, we’ll need to find you a good nursemaid and a new housekeeper…”

David froze suddenly. He realised that he had forgotten, in the stress of the past days, that his departing housekeeper might well still be in residence when he arrived with a child she knew nothing about. It had not occurred to him to write to Helen Carleton, he had been too busy. Now he realised he should have done so. He wondered if she had already left for her family home in Leicester for Christmas. Part of him hoped she had done so. The other part hoped he would have the chance to see her again, to thank her for her kindness.

He fell asleep quickly and woke in the half-light of dawn. To his surprise, George still slept, curled up against his body, warm in the chill air of the inn bedroom. David lay very still, savouring the moment. Very gently, he kissed the top of the child’s head. The colour of his hair reminded David sharply of Arabella and he wept a little, regretting all the things they might have shared.

They arrived at Oak Lodge late in the afternoon, several days before Christmas. George was asleep when David lifted him from the chaise and instructed the coachmen to go to the kitchen for refreshment while the baggage was unloaded. He walked into the house and stopped in the hallway in considerable surprise. The stairs were decorated with greenery and tied with red ribbons. It reminded him of the Christmases of his childhood, and he stood in the hall, the child in his arms, unexpectedly assailed by a rush of memories.

“Major Cartwright.”

The girl’s voice was astonished. David turned to see her emerging from the kitchen area, still wearing her white apron. She had discarded her lace cap and looked neat and efficient and surprisingly attractive. David quailed internally but took his courage in both hands, remembering that this was his house, and he was her employer.

“Miss Carleton, what on earth are you still doing here?” he asked sternly. “By now, you should be at home with your family, ready to celebrate…”

Helen came forward, ignoring him, and drew back the grubby blanket from George’s flushed face. “Is this your wife’s boy?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” David said. “His name is George. And he is my son.”

Helen lifted her eyes to his face. “I’m not going home for Christmas,” she said. “I’m sorry, Major, I know I was ordered to do so. But it occurred to me that I might be needed here. And it turns out that I was more right than I knew. Here, let me take him. How on earth did you manage on the journey with him?”

“Very well, ma’am,” David said haughtily. He decided not to mention how appalling it had been at times. “I’m an army man, we’re very adaptable.”

Helen looked up at him, a smile lurking in the blue eyes. “So am I, Major Cartwright. And since I do not think you intend to abandon your profession just yet, that is just as well. I’ve had a lot of practice taking care of my sisters’ children, you know, and we still have a few days before Christmas to get the nursery set up just as it ought to be. He’s a beautiful child.”

“He’s been badly treated. I will tell you everything, ma’am. But just now…”

“Just now, we should take him upstairs. I think he needs changing.”

David trod up the stairs in her wake, remembering his resolve of earlier. “I told you to go home.”

“I ignored you.”

“You cannot remain in my employ if I dismiss you.”

“That is very true. I think we should discuss it again after Christmas.”

“You are not going to listen to me, are you?”

Helen shot him a look. “Don’t you trust me with him, Major?”

David looked back at her steadily. “I cannot think of anybody I would trust more,” he said simply. “But Miss Carleton…”

“Major Cartwright, why don’t you let me decide for myself? There is nothing more irritating than a man trying to tell a woman how she should think or feel. Just now, let us take care of your son.”

***

It was frosty on Christmas morning. Helen reluctantly left George in Sarah’s devoted charge and went to church with her employer. Inside, she headed towards her usual seat among the tradespeople and upper servants at the back, but Major Cartwright took her arm and steered her firmly into the pew beside him.

Gossip travelled fast in a small town like Rye and there were sly looks and veiled hints which, over sherry in the rectory, turned into open questions about Major Cartwright’s new charge. Helen watched admiringly as the Major responded, his replies so bland that eventually even the most avid gossip became frustrated.

“He is my son. My wife and I were temporarily estranged. Tragically she died just as we were planning to reconcile. I am, as you can imagine, heartbroken. Miss Carleton has agreed to remain in my employment as his governess, and to oversee the nursery once I return to the army. I am very grateful to her.”

He told the story over and over, varying the words but sticking firmly to the message. Helen felt enormous respect for him. She could not imagine how badly he must have been hurt by his wife, but his thoughts were all of the child. After church, he sat at a table in the hastily furnished nursery, with George on his lap, showing him how to build a simple tower with wooden blocks. George picked up the idea quickly, and then abruptly reached out and pushed the tower over. The hazel eyes flew to the Major’s face apprehensively. David Cartwright was laughing.

“Good at siege warfare, I see. Shall we do it again?”

He did so, and this time George gave a crow of laughter as the tower fell. The Major bent and kissed the soft copper hair. Helen stood up, fighting back sentimental tears.

“I will be needed in the kitchen, Major, so I’ll leave you to it.”

He looked around quickly, smiling. “Come back as soon as you can. It’s important that he gets to know both of us, but you especially. If you’re really going to take on the job of raising him. Are you good at building towers, Miss Carleton?”

Helen smiled, her heart full. “I have three nephews, Major, I am an expert. I just don’t want to intrude.”

“This is your home too, ma’am, for as long as you choose to stay. You couldn’t intrude. And I hope you’ll be dining with me as usual. It’s Christmas, you cannot leave me to eat alone.”

“I should be delighted, sir.”

“Was your mother very angry?”

Helen laughed. “Yes,” she admitted. “But she is happier that I am now able to call myself a governess rather than a housekeeper, so it could have been worse.”

She had received the letter from her mother the previous day. Lady Carleton had expressed herself freely, but Helen felt that the anger was half-hearted. It seemed that Kitty had made the acquaintance of a titled gentleman at a hunt ball, who appeared very taken with her, and who openly expressed his hope of renewing their acquaintance in London next year. Helen had no idea if the attachment was real, but it was a useful distraction for her parents.

They dined on roast goose and traditional Christmas pudding and drank a rich red wine which Major Cartwright told her came from the vineyards around the River Douro and was a favourite of Lord Wellington. He made her laugh with stories of various Christmases spent on campaign and asked her about her family. Helen had wondered if she would miss the noisy family gatherings of her childhood, but she did not.

They went together to settle George into his cot. He was already half asleep, worn out by the unaccustomed excitement. Major Cartwright bent to kiss him, then stood back for Helen to do the same. She did so, suddenly very aware of how domestic the moment was. They might have been any young couple, putting their child to bed after a busy and very happy Christmas Day. It made Helen feel unexpectedly shy and she wondered if the Major was aware of it. If he was, David Cartwright gave no indication.

Afterwards, Helen sat beside the fire, in the drawing room, sipping sherry and trying to pretend that this was normal behaviour for a governess who was also a housekeeper and a cook. David Cartwright sat opposite her.

“Do you play chess, Miss Carleton?”

“Yes. I’m quite fond of the game.”

“Would you do me the honour?”

They sat with the board between them like a shield and Helen concentrated on her moves and tried not to think about anything else, until he said:

“Do you really want to stay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to increase your salary, and I’d like you to employ a kitchen maid and a nursery maid. You can’t leave it all to Sarah and you’ll be very busy with George.”

“Thank you, Major. I…”

“I feel as though I ought to send you home, but I don’t want to. You’ll be so good for him. I want to be here, but I can’t. Not yet. Still, it’s a huge responsibility, and if you change your mind, please tell me and I’ll find somebody else.”

“I won’t change my mind, Major. I really want this post. He’s a beautiful child, I’m already a little in love with him.”

“Will you write to me with news of him?”

“All the time,” Helen said warmly. “There will be nothing of him that you do not know.”

“Thank you. I’ve felt so resentful about Arabella but in the end, she gave me something priceless, something I’ve wanted for so long. A child. A family. I’m so grateful. It’s your move, Miss Carleton.”

Helen studied the board. After a long moment, she moved her rook. “I think you are going to lose, Major Cartwright.”

“I don’t.”

Helen looked up in surprise and found that he was looking at her, with a hint of a smile behind the steady brown eyes.

“I’m playing the long game,” he explained, and reached to move his piece.

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