by Lynn Bryant
Simon endured the two nights of marching through freezing rain listening to the quiet grumbling of his men and the slightly louder complaints of his ensigns, like a penance. He thought endlessly of Valentina Cabrera; more than he had probably thought about her ever before. For the first time he saw her, not just as an attractive and enthusiastic lover, but as a young woman trapped in a miserable marriage, who had been desperate to escape, if only for a short time, with a man who had seemed to care. Simon was bitterly ashamed and angry that he had not stopped to think about the possible consequences for Valentina of being discovered. He wondered how her husband had found out. Possibly his attendance at a ball he had not been invited to had alerted Cabrera or possibly somebody had dropped a word in his ear. However it had happened, Simon had no doubt that a thorough beating had elicited a full confession from Valentina. He would have loved to have administered an equally thorough beating to Cabrera in return but he knew that his colonel had been right; it would not only cost Simon his commission, it would probably lead to worse reprisals for Valentina.
It was impossible not to think also of his conversation with Colonel van Daan about Robert. Simon believed his colonel when he said that he had not intended to raise the subject, it was simply that Paul van Daan's anger was impossible to hide and Simon understood, for the first time, how it might feel. He was honest enough with himself to admit that his feelings for Valentina had involved more lust than love and could not be compared to his colonel's evident devotion to his young wife, but his own suppressed anger at Cabrera give Simon a painful insight into how Paul van Daan must feel about the man who had regularly brutalised the girl he loved for two years and had almost murdered her at the end.
The second company of the 115th arrived back at the palace on the second morning into a dreary dawn light. Simon and Nicholas marched them over to the barracks where the smell of frying bacon made Simon feel almost light-headed with hunger.
"What's this?" he asked, as Sergeant Barforth of the first company appeared at the door.
"Early breakfast and hot spiced rum," Barforth said. "Compliments of Colonel van Daan, he thought they'd earned it."
Simon gave a weary smile. "They bloody have, Sergeant."
The four officers trudged across the park towards the palace, finding signs of activity even this early. In the hallway, Private Browning, one of the orderlies from the 110th met them with a salute.
"Food's ready in one of the small salons, sir. Major Corrigan thought you might need something."
Browning led them through a maze of rooms into a small parlour with covered dishes set out on a polished table and two covered jugs of spiced rum. Simon stood dripping on the polished floor watching his two young ensigns piling their plates and filling their glasses with the eagerness of children. Nicholas came forward with a glass of hot rum.
"Here," he said. "I think it's his way of telling us the punishment is over."
Simon took the glass and drank. "Oddly enough I'm not sorry it happened," he said.
"Are you all right? You've been very quiet the past couple of days." Nicholas studied him. "Are you worried about her?"
"Yes," Simon admitted. "But it's not really that. It's just that there's so much to think about, Nick, I'm not sure I can put it into words. Not just Valentina. It's over and I can't change what I did. I just hope she'll be all right. She'll certainly be better off without my so-called help. But I can't stop thinking about Robert."
"I'm sorry, Simon. I can't imagine..."
"I can't imagine either," Simon interrupted. "But I don't want to imagine. Who knows what went on in his fucking head when he thought it was a good idea to hold that girl down and take a horsewhip to her? I don't give a shit any more. I'm tired of giving myself a headache trying to force myself to remember all the good things about him. Who gives a damn if he was nice to me during my first weeks at school? All I can remember now was the time the blacksmith came up to complain to my father that Robert had seduced his daughter and my father had to pay him off. Do you know what I'm thinking now? Was it seduction or was it rape? Did he hit her? Did he..."
"Simon, stop it," Nicholas said, with a warning glance over at the two younger officers. "Not here and now."
"No, you're right." Simon set his half empty glass down. "Sorry, Nick, go and eat. I'm not hungry."
Simon walked through the echoing halls to the library in the main wing. He had not been sure if anybody would be around but he found Colonel van Daan writing letters at his big desk, with Captain Fallon checking invoices into a big ledger. The colonel looked up at his knock.
"Come in, Mr Carlyon." The colonel surveyed him and frowned. "You're still soaked, you need to change. Have you eaten?"
"Not hungry, sir."
Paul glanced at Fallon, who saluted. "I'll finish these later, sir."
As the door closed behind him, Simon said:
"I'm sorry."
"Lieutenant, there's no need. It's over, you took your medicine..."
"Not for that. I'm sorry about Mrs van Daan. I'm apologising on behalf of myself and my family, since they can't be here, for everything that he did. I can't believe I ever tried to justify that in my head. I can't..."
"Simon, stop it."
"Will you tell her, sir? I can't, it would be embarrassing. But I really need her to know how bloody awful I'm feeling about what he did to her. If he were here right now, I'd kill him myself."
"You wouldn't get the chance, lad, I'm quicker than you are," the colonel said, and rose, coming around the table. He put both hands on Simon's shoulders.
"Listen to me. We're not having this conversation again. It's over and he's gone. I've noted your apology and I promise I'll tell her about it, but I can't accept it because it's not yours - or your parents' - to make. There's nothing of him in you. Put it aside and forget about the bastard. Agreed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now get yourself back to your friends and enjoy your breakfast. And that is an order, Lieutenant."
Simon stood back and saluted. Leaving the room, he felt unexpectedly lighter of heart. He did not try to analyse it, but quickened his steps in case Witham and the two ensigns had finished the smoked bacon and baked eggs, a problem which felt suddenly more significant than a two year old tragedy long-buried.
Chapter Twelve
Paul was surprised at how much he enjoyed the light division's sojourn in Madrid. Although he was a sociable individual, he preferred spending time with people he knew and liked and the kind of formal reception which he was often expected to attend as one of Wellington's senior officers was agonisingly tedious. Madrid was different. Once Wellington had departed for Burgos, and General Rowland Hill had led his men into a series of complex manoeuvres to try to second guess the various French armies, Paul found himself, with his general and the rest of the light division, in the unusual position of having little to do other than drilling and training the men and keeping the Spanish happy.
Paul did not pride himself on his diplomatic skills, but his wife excelled in such matters. Anne threw open the reception rooms of the Marina Palace and hosted a series of entertainments; balls, dinners and receptions, where the officers of Wellington's army and their Spanish counterparts could meet and dance and get to know one another. General Alten acted as host and Paul watched with pleasure as a comfortable friendship was established between his lively wife and his reserved German commander.
Anne had always been on excellent terms with General Robert Craufurd, Alten's predecessor at the head of the light division and enjoyed good relations with both Paul's fellow brigade commanders, especially Andrew Barnard, whose lively manner and ready sense of humour touched a chord in Anne. She had liked Alten from the first but the Hanoverian could appear slightly shy in company and it had taken several months for Anne to properly get to know him.
Watching his wife in this elegant setting, gave Paul an extraordinary sense of pride. His first wife, Rowena, had hated the social aspects of regimental life but
Anne's stepmother had taught her well and she had excellent company manners. Like Paul, Anne came from a mercantile background but unlike Franz van Daan, who had married into the nobility, Anne's father had never moved out of his local sphere and Anne had married at seventeen having very little experience of society. She had grown into her role as the wife of a senior officer and had learned to curb her natural outspokenness extremely well. Paul was amused and a little touched to watch Juana Smith, who was constantly at his wife's side on social occasions, carefully watching Anne and copying her manner. He thought that Harry Smith's young wife was a quick learner and would be an asset to Harry in future years.
The delights of the Spanish capital were limited, for the junior officers of the light division, only by their purses. Prices were high in Madrid and Paul was vastly amused, taking his wife shopping for new clothing, at Anne's Yorkshire disgust at the cost of a length of muslin.
"It would need to be lined with gold before I'd pay that for it," she informed the surprised shopkeeper, in fluent Spanish. "It's pretty enough, but we can do better than that on the price I think."
Generally speaking, Anne did considerably better on the price and throughout the capital Alten's officers and men settled in and learned the painstaking skill of bartering for everything from basic foodstuffs to a night in a brothel. Most of the men were reduced to living on their rations, apart from the occasional dinner invitation from a local family, while the officers managed their mess charges as best they could. There was an advantage to being part of a regimental mess like the 110th, because George Kelly, Paul's Irish cook, was able to negotiate good prices and even with their money running low, the officers of the third brigade dined well.
There were often guests for dinner, some more frequent than others. Harry Smith and his young wife became an almost permanent fixture with the 110th, causing Paul to regard him with a pained expression as his wife greeted Anne on their arrival one afternoon.
"Good afternoon, Captain Smith. What the devil are you doing here again, don't you have a billet of your own?"
"We do, sir. Major Swanson invited us. It's very much appreciated, sir."
Paul studied Smith thoughtfully. "Are you struggling, Harry?"
His junior pulled a face. "We've still not been paid, sir, and it's more expensive now that I'm married. Can't really pool resources with the others, officers with wives dine separately."
"And it's a stupid custom, I've always said it," Paul said. "Come and have a drink. Look, I can only invite you as a guest so many times, it's not fair on my own junior officers who have to pay their way. But how do you feel about joining the 110th mess while we're in Madrid? If you can't pay immediately, I'll settle your bills and you can repay me in stages when you get paid; I trust you for it. It'll be a lot cheaper than what you're doing, and Juana can eat with you; wives are welcome in my mess."
Smith's face brightened. "Seriously, sir? I say, that's really good of you. I'd be so grateful. I hate feeling like a beggar."
"I'll get Fallon to let you have the bill along with the other officers. If you can't manage it, come to me."
"I'll manage it, sir."
"There's just one thing, Harry. When we don't have guests, Keren Trenlow joins us for dinner. I'm sure you know her situation; we wouldn't generally introduce her to the officers' wives, but since the only officer's wife here is mine and she has no standards whatsoever, it doesn't cause a problem. I'm not sure how you feel about Juana being introduced to her..."
"Me, I have met her already," Juana said, turning from her conversation with Anne. Smith's young wife had rapidly lost all shyness with Paul. "At the horrid baker near the white church."
Paul lifted his eyebrows. "You're very harsh on the baker, Juana, what's he done?"
"He tried to sell me bread with mould on it," Juana said disgustedly. "I thought he was being helpful, wrapping it and placing it in my basket, but it was to hide the underneath, which was green. But Miss Trenlow was in the line behind me and she told him to take it out and give me a fresh loaf. I was very angry; he treats me like a fool because I am young. We walked back through the town together and she told me of a better baker, only one must get there earlier before all his bread is sold. So you cannot ask me not to know her, Enrique, because I already know her. She is nice."
Paul met Smith's eyes, keeping his expression carefully neutral. "It's up to you, Captain," he said.
Smith shook his head. "It's really not, sir. If I told Juana not to acknowledge Miss Trenlow, she would probably seek out her company on a daily basis, just to teach me a lesson. Anyway, I'm not such a coxcomb as to turn up my nose at a female if Mrs van Daan don't."
Paul was beginning to laugh. "You married a sensible woman, Harry, I take my hat off to you. Juana, may I take you in to dinner?"
***
Long summer days shortened, and the nights grew longer and colder with autumn bringing more rain. Lord Wellington's troops fought and died on the slopes outside the fortress town of Burgos, while General Rowland Hill kept his troops in readiness to protect Madrid, and the French armies circled at a distance, looking for an opportunity to strike. In Madrid, the war felt strangely distant to the officers and men of the light division, who were accustomed to being at the forefront of every campaign.
Captain Leo Manson was at skirmish training with the 110th and 115th in the palace grounds when a hail from an approaching horseman caused him to turn. He recognised Colonel Johnny Wheeler, scanning the well-laid out gardens, where Manson's men were using shrubs and hedges as cover. Manson stood upright from his position behind a bush which sported a mass of pink flowers and waved to Johnny. There was a bellow of warning from Sergeant-Major Carter who was acting as Manson's skirmish partner for the exercise and then an ominous click from behind him and Manson turned and found Private Cretney with his rifle at his shoulder, grinning broadly.
"Just blew your head off, sir."
Manson laughed and held up his hands in acknowledgement. "You did. But don't get smart about it, Cretney, while you're standing there looking pleased with yourself like a bloody amateur, I think you'll find Corporal Cooper just shot you in the back. Mr Denny?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take over, will you?"
"Yes, sir."
Manson walked across the lawn to where Wheeler was waiting and saluted. "Morning, sir."
"Good morning, Mr Manson. Get your horse, will you? I've just had a message from the colonel, he's just got back from seeing Lieutenant-General Alten. He asked if I'd bring you along."
Manson saluted, and turned to find Private Charlton, his new orderly, coming forward with his horse. Manson had never employed an orderly or a groom. His rank did not entitle him to any staff paid for by the army and Manson, who lived on his pay, had no money to employ either servants or grooms and had always managed for himself. He had been surprised when Charlton had waylaid him after training one morning and offered his services as an informal arrangement.
"I'd like to, Charlton, but I can't really afford it."
"Not looking to be paid, sir. Not like that." Charlton took a deep breath as if he had been steeling himself. "Learning to read, sir," he said, speaking quickly as though he might lose his nerve. "Have to read and write to get promotion. The corporal's helping me a bit, but he's got no books to practice from apart from the Bible. It's awful dull, sir."
Manson studied Charlton slightly reddened face and understood. "You want to borrow a book or two."
"Just to practice, sir. I'd take real good care of them, bring them back."
Manson was unexpectedly touched. "All right," he said. "We'll give it a try, see how it goes. But borrowing a book isn't payment enough for dealing with the mess my tent gets into. How about I help you?"
Charlton looked astonished. "You, sir? Teach me?"
"Why not? You'll be around anyway. I've no idea if I'll be any good as a teacher, I've never tried, but we'll say half an hour a day before dinner. See how it goes."
Manson
had been surprised and impressed with Charlton's enthusiasm for the lessons. He was also immensely pleased with the borderer's dedication to his interests and felt an almost childish pleasure when he returned to his room to find it clean and tidy with hot water provided and Charlton ready to take his boots for cleaning. He was careful to make sure that Charlton did not neglect his duties; Lord Wellington had forbidden the well-known practice of officers using private soldiers as their servants, taking them away from regular duty. Manson agreed with Wellington and insisted that Charlton be present for all training and drills.
Manson smiled his thanks at Charlton and rode to join Wheeler. They walked the horses through the gardens and up the sweeping carriage drive to the palace. It was a beautiful building, mellow stone looking almost pink in the bright morning light. Hundreds of windows reflected sunlight back over the gardens, and as Manson watched, one of them opened and a maid leaned out, shaking out a blanket to air it. Manson recognised her as Constanza, a plumply pretty twenty year old who had worked for the Marina family and had remained to work for the army. Manson knew from listening to his fellow officers, laughing in the mess, that the girl was providing other services for several of them as well.
Manson's friends were beginning to tease him a little about his steadfast refusal to take up with any of the local girls or to visit the brothel with them. He had remained silent on his reasons although by now, all of them knew about Diana and he was fairly sure that behind his back there was a good deal of hilarity about his choice to remain faithful to a prostitute. Manson chose not to discuss it with any but his close friends. He had not made a reasoned decision about it, but he knew that it would have felt wrong to get up from another woman's bed and go back to write to Diana about the events of his week. He was enjoying their correspondence enormously and it was not difficult to resist temptation; Manson had never been particularly promiscuous. He had also recognised that getting to know Diana had changed his feelings about using prostitutes, possibly forever. Knowing what she had needed to do to survive during the years of the French occupation had given him a distaste for expecting any woman to service him for money; he would have spent his time wondering what had driven her to sell herself and whether she was hating having to do it.