by Jane Feather
Lucy had seen and heard her brother with his friends, and she knew how he despised what he called Society’s fribbles-men who wasted their time and energies in the clubs of St. James's and dancing attendance on the Season's belles and heiresses. Even from her own prejudiced viewpoint, Gareth came into that category. Unlike Julian, he was not a man of action and fierce opinion. But he was hardly unusual in that. It was Julian who was the strange one, according to Society’s lights.
She sighed and turned back to her secretaire, drawing toward her a piece of hot-pressed paper in her favorite pale blue, nibbling the end of her quill as she tried to think of a tactful way of announcing to her brother their imminent arrival at Tregarthan.
And what of this Spanish lady? What could she be like? Was she young? Presumably, if her father had left her to Julian's protection. It was not at all like Julian to take on such a task, but, then, he did have a very honed sense of duty and obligation. Perhaps the lady's father had saved his life, or something equally desperate.
Was she beautiful?
And what in the world would Cornish society make of someone sounding so exotic? They were plain, insular folk who had little truck with the world outside their own Cornish land. Maybe the Spanish orphan didn't even speak English.
It was all most extraordinary. Fired by curiosity now, Lucy began to write rapidly, following Gareth's suggestion that her brother might wish for a hostess if he was entertaining guests. She'd be happy to take on the duty for her dear brother and was looking forward to seeing him again after such a long time. She trusted he was well and sent her…
Here she paused. What did she send him? Her love?
No, that sounded contrived. Julian was always pleasant to her, but he'd always been somewhat distant and hadn't hesitated to exercise his authority as brother and guardian on the rare occasions when she'd been tempted to balk at the restrictions he and her mother considered necessary for a daughter of the house of St. Simon.
She settled for warm regards, sanded the sheet, folded and sealed it, then went in search of Gareth to frank it for her. Julian should be almost in Cornwall by now, since his letter had been dated a week previously, so this missive should arrive at Tregarthan a few days after his own arrival. Too late for him to write back and tell them not to come, and he was far too courteous to send them away once they arrived.
He could be very chilly, though. Lucy pushed this aside, finding herself eager for the change the journey promised. And Gareth would be with her for the next few weeks. There'd be no more nights spent with… with whomever he spent them. And maybe she could learn to please him a little… or at least to appear as if she didn't find that unpleasant tangling of bodies completely distasteful.
Feeling much more cheerful, she went into her bedchamber to examine her wardrobe and decide what she should take with her for a summer in Cornwall.
Did it ever stop raining in this ghastly gray country? Tamsyn leaned out of the window of the inn at Launceston, gazing across the jumble of slate roofs glistening and slippery with rain. It hadn't stopped since they'd landed at Portsmouth two weeks previously. It wasn't fierce and tumultuous, like Spanish rain; it was just a continuous wet mizzle, and the cold was so damp, it seemed to seep into the marrow of her bones.
Behind her in the small bedchamber, Josefa muttered to herself as she repacked the belongings they'd used overnight. She was not enjoying this sojourn in the cold, gray land where the sun never shone, but El Baron's daughter had said it had to be, a decree that for Josefa was as powerful as if it had come from the baron's own lips.
There was a brisk rap at the door, and Gabriel entered, ducking beneath the low lintel. Rain dripped off his heavy cloak. “You ready with that portmanteau, woman?”
“Ay de mi,” Josefa muttered, struggling with the stiff straps and buckles. “I'll be glad when we get where we're going.”
“Won't we all?” Gabriel said dourly. His big hand rested for a moment on her arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. At least he'd been born in this land, but it was an alien shore for a peasant woman from the barren mountains of northern Spain. She gave him a rather shy smile, then bobbed her head, basking in the surprising gentleness of his sudden smile. Gabriel was her man, the sun to her earth; she always walked two steps behind him, and his word was law.
Gabriel hefted the portmanteau. “Little girl, you're to travel inside the carriage today. Colonel's orders.”
“Since when has he been giving orders?” Tamsyn snapped irritably to Gabriel's retreating back. It seemed the last straw on this dismal morning. “I've no intention of being swayed and jolted in that chaise. It makes me feel sick.”
She followed Gabriel down the creaky wooden staircase, across the lamplit stone-flagged hall, and out into 'the gloomy inn yard, where stood the postchaise that had brought them from London, ostlers putting the horses to, one of them tethering Cesar behind.
Colonel, Lord St. Simon stood watching. His cloak was black with the drizzle, and a steady stream ran from the brim of his beaver hat, but he seemed oblivious of the weather.
“Good morning.” He greeted Tamsyn briskly. “I trust you slept well?”
“I always do,” she replied. “Even when the sheets are damp. Will it ever stop raining?”
He laughed shortly. “Yes, one day it will. One morning you'll wake up to bright-blue sky and sunshine and birdsong, and you'll forget all about the rain. It's one of England's tricks.”
Tamsyn grimaced, disbelieving, and huddled into her cloak, her hair already plastered to her head.
It was no weather for a buttercup, Julian caught himself thinking with a ripple of amusement. She looked shrunken and doleful, her bright hair rain-dark, her small body hunched into the heavy cloak, all her challenging, impudent sparkle vanquished by the dreary climate. Then he began to wonder what his brigade was doing, and his amusement died. If she didn't like the weather in her adopted country, she had only herself to blame.
How long had it had taken Tim to whip the men into shape after the excesses of Badajos? Where were they on the long march to Campo Mayor? Who was still alive? The questions as always roiled in his brain, and he had to force himself to come back to the rain-soaked yard of the inn at Launceston and his present preoccupations.
“I want you to travel inside the chaise with Josefa this morning,” he said curtly.
“So Gabriel said, but I don't wish to. I'd rather be wet than nauseated in that smelly, jolting box.” She turned to release her horse from the rear of the chaise.
Julian caught her arm. “I need you inside, Tamsyn.” “Why?”
“We're crossing Bodmin Moor,” he stated as if that were answer enough.
Tamsyn frowned. They'd arrived at Launceston early the previous afternoon, and the colonel had insisted they go no farther that day, citing in much the same tone as now the crossing of Bodmin Moor. “So, milord colonel?” She dashed rain from her face as she regarded him with raised eyebrows.
“So, buttercup,” he replied deliberately, “I need you to ride with your damned treasure. Gabriel and I will be outside as a first defense, and you will be armed and ready within.”
“Oh. Are there bandits on this Bodmin Moor then?” Her expression livened considerably. '
“We call them highwaymen,” he said with an arid smile. “But they're as savage and ruthless a breed as any mountain brigand or robber baron.”
Tamsyn decided to let that pass. “Gabriel has my weapons. I'll fetch them.” She went off immediately, her step much crisper at the prospect of a little excitement to enliven this dreary journey.
Julian stamped his feet on the cobbles and turned up the collar of his cloak, running a mental check over his own weapons. “Into Bodmin and out of this world” was what the locals said when preparing to cross the bleak, windswept moor. Apart from his school years he d grown up at Tregarthan, the St. Simon family estate overlooking the River Fowey, and considered himself as much a Cornishman as the landlord of this Launceston inn, steeped in the lores a
nd customs of the county. And he loved every blade of grass, every flower of the hedgerow. He took pleasure in the thought of getting his hands on the reins of his estate again, of walking around his house, riding over his lands. If he was truly honest, there would be some compensation for this enforced rustication.
He'd made some progress on Wellington's account in London, presenting to the lords of Westminster the Duke's urgent need for more men and money. They'd listened to him with flattering attention and suggested he return in a month to answer further questions once they'd had a chance to mull over the duke's request. The wheels of government turned very slowly, and Julian had not expected any immediate decisions. He'd written to Wellington with what news he had and was resigned to returning to London in July, when he hoped there'd be more concrete results to impart. He knew this politicking was vital work, but it was dull work, nevertheless, for a man who thrived on the smell and sound of gunfire, the challenges and privations of forced marches, and the quirks and vulgarities, the courage and the foolishness, of the common soldier. Not even the prospect of his own house and land could truly compensate for that loss.
And if it weren't for the bastard spawn of a Spanish robber, he would still be with the army. Wellington would never have sent him on this diplomatic mission if the opportunity hadn't presented itself so forcefully.
Tamsyn was blithely unaware of his reflections as she installed herself in the coach with the shivering Josefa and ran her eye over the chests of gold and jewelry stashed beneath the seats. Their presence made the inside of the vehicle very cramped. Normally this wouldn't trouble anyone, since until today only Josefa had been traveling inside. But Tamsyn couldn't fault the colonel's defensive measures if they were really about to cross wild and dangerous country, so she curled herself into a corner, leaving as much room for the larger figure of Josefa as she could, and checked that her two pistols were primed. Josefa would reload for her if they were attacked.
Gabriel stuck his head through the window. “We'll be off now. You all right in here?”
“How far is it across this moor?” Tamsyn asked. “Don't know.” He withdrew his head. “Colonel, the bairn wants to know how far she needs to travel in the coach.”
“It's twenty-one miles to Bodmin,” Julian said, swinging onto his horse. “After that she can ride if she wishes. It's but twelve miles to Tregarthan from there.”
Tamsyn nodded, satisfied. It was only just past dawn, and they should accomplish thirty-three miles easily by nightfall; they'd been managing forty a day from London along the paved stagecoach roads with frequent changes.
However, as they left the ruined keep and tower of Launceston Castle behind, it became clear that the narrow, rutted track across Bodmin Moor was no stage road. It was an ancient road, known as the Tinners Way, used to carry tin and clay from the mines from Fowey through Bodmin and across the moor into southern England. On either side the dark, rainy land stretched to the horizon, scrawny trees bent double with the force of the gusting wind, stumpy clumps of broom and gorse clinging to the peaty earth. The coachman kept his horses at an easy trot as the track crested steep hills and plunged down again into the flat moorland. The iron wheels churned the wet earth into a sea of mud, and every now and again the chaise would lurch almost to a halt as the wheels became enmired.
When that happened, the coachman cursed and whipped up his horses, glancing anxiously around, his blunderbuss across his knees. On either side of the coach rode Gabriel and Julian, muskets across their saddlebows, pistols at their belts, hat brims down and collars turned up as they faced into the stinging, wind-hurled rain.
They rode in grim silence, ever watchful, but finally came off the moor after a tense five hours, having seen neither hide nor hair of a potential highwayman, or, indeed, of any fellow travelers on this raw day of early summer.
The horses trotted wearily down the steep hill into the center of Bodmin. Tamsyn leaped from the coach with a sigh of relief as they came to a halt in the inn yard. She was feeling queasy from the motion, and there was an ominous tightening around her temples. She looked around through the continuing drizzle at the town, a patchwork of slate-gray roofs and gray stonework climbing up the steep hillside.
The colonel dismounted and came over to her. His eyes were sharp as they rested on her face, noticing the pallor beneath the suntan and the shadows below the almond-shaped eyes.
“Tired?”
“Not really. I feel as if I'm going to puke. It's that coach-I can't abide traveling in that fashion.”
“It was necessary.”
She shrugged. “I didn't see any of your highway robbers, Colonel.”
“The precaution was necessary,” he responded indifferently. “Go into the inn and bespeak a private parlor for us and a luncheon. I'll see about fresh horses.”
“Yes, milord colonel.” She touched her forelock in mock salute.
“You must learn to curtsy, buttercup,” he responded with the nonchalance of before. “Tugging forelocks is appropriate only for grooms, ostlers, and farm laborers. Serving maids curtsy.”
“I am not a maid.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not in any sense of the word.”
He turned from her, ignoring the dangerous flash in her eyes.
Tamsyn chewed her lip in frustration, staring at his departing back, before she turned into the welcome warmth and lamplight of the inn.
The innkeeper made no attempt to hide his astonishment at these new arrivals. The rotund Spanish lady huddled in her shawls and mantillas poured forth a stream of incomprehensible laments that were as incomprehensibly responded to by the giant oak of a man who carried a massive broadsword thrust into the crimson sash at his waist. The diminutive figure of their companion, to his relief, spoke in the king's English with a perfectly ordinary request for a parlor and refreshment. But there was something exotic about her, too. He didn't know whether it was the short hair or the way she walked with an easy, swinging stride quite unlike a woman's walk. Her riding habit seemed conventional enough, but there was something about the way she wore it that was not ordinary, although he couldn't for the life of him pinpoint what it was.
Then Lord St. Simon entered the inn, and the landlord immediately ceased his speculation. He hurried to greet one of the largest landowners in the county, bowing and offering an effusive welcome.
Julian stripped off his gloves, responding to the landlord’s greeting with patient courtesy.
“Show us to a parlor, Sawyer,” he interrupted finally. “It's been the devil of a drive across the moor, and we're famished.”
“Yes, of course, my lord.” The landlord bustled ahead. “And I'll have a bottle of burgundy brought up straightway. I've a fine Aloxe Corton from the Gentlemen’s last run. Would the… the ladies…,” he said resolutely, “care for a dish of tea, perhaps?”
“I'll have a tankard of rum,” Gabriel declared before Julian could reply. “And the woman, too. I've a hole in my gullet the size of a cannon ball. What of you, little girl?”
“Tea,” Tamsyn said. “And perhaps I'll take a glass of the colonel's wine, if he has no objection.” She offered the bewildered landlord a sweet smile as he opened the door onto a cheerful parlor overlooking the street. “It might settle my stomach, I feel as sick as a dog. That's a poxy road across your godforsaken moor.”
The landlord's jaw dropped to his knees, and his eyes slid, scandalized, toward Lord St. Simon, who said brusquely, “We're sharp set, Sawyer. Bring us a dish of pasties with the drink.”
“Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord.” The landlord bowed himself out of the parlor, his eyes round as buttons in the rosy folds of his face.
“Congratulations, Tamsyn. You've certainly managed to set Sawyer on his heels,” Julian said with a sardonic twist of his lips. “If you intended to make yourself conspicuous and give rise to a firestorm of gossip, you've succeeded beyond your wildest dreams.”
“I suppose English ladies don't say things like that,” Tamsyn admitted in c
lear chagrin.
“On the whole, they do not,” Julian agreed, tossing his gloves onto a wooden settle beside the fire and shrugging out of his cloak. “But, then, as my mother always said, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.”
“Oh!” Tamsyn exclaimed, indignation chasing away her chagrin. “I am not a sow's ear.”
Gabriel was warming his backside before the fire, listening to this exchange with an expression of mild interest. He'd decided many days ago that he had no need to jump to the bairn's defense when it came to the colonel's frequently acid tongue. Besides, he could see the colonel's point of view. If one wasn't bound body and soul to the family of El Baron, one might legitimately object to being compelled to partake in this venture.
“You're a long way from being a silk purse,” Julian responded coolly.
“Well, that's your job, isn't it?” she fired back.
He responded with a careless nod. “It's my job to try. I've never guaranteed success, if you recall.”
The landlord came back at this juncture, saving Tamsyn from the need to reply. She retreated to the window seat and sat glaring through the befogged mullioned windowpane, watching the people in the narrow street below. They seemed unaffected by the rain, but then, she supposed one would learn to be so, since it appeared to be a constant fact of life.
While she watched, a horseman rode up before the inn's front door, a large man wrapped in a heavy cloak. He was obviously well-known at the inn, because two liveried footmen ran out into the rain to hold his horse even before he had time to dismount. He stood for a moment in the rain, glancing up and down the street, and Tamsyn felt a curious prickle on the back of her neck. An unmistakable aura of power and authority clung to the man. Then he turned and strode into the inn, pulling off his dripping beaver hat to reveal a luxuriant mane of iron-gray hair the minute before he disappeared from sight.