Barely a Bride

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

“Happy anniversary, my lord.” Eastman opened the pockmarked low wooden front door of the house to which he and Griffin had been billeted and ducked outside. He crossed the minuscule patch of ground separating the yard from the dirt street and walked to the line of cavalry officers’ cots surrounding the village well.

  Dusk had fallen, and Griffin sat hunched over his writing desk on the cot. Like all his fellow cavalry officers who would lead charges at dawn, Griffin had moved his bed outside to the village square in order to sleep with his bridle in hand. A small lamp hung suspended from a pole above his cot, the pool of light barely bright enough to illuminate the surface of Griffin’s writing desk.

  His favorite mount, Samson, fully recovered from his hip wound, stood quietly in full battle gear, his rein looped over Griffin’s arm.

  “The mail pouch Lord Weymouth sent made it up from the back of the line,” Eastman announced. “A subaltern just delivered it” Griffin closed his journal and put it away, then straightened and stretched before he recapped the inkwell and set his writing desk aside.

  The army had been on the march for two full days, and Griffin hadn’t slept in three nights except in snatches when he and Samson both managed to doze.

  The cavalry had been kept at the ready, and this morning they would lead the charge into the enemy lines.

  “There’s a bundle of letters and a package for you from Lady Abernathy.” Eastman reached for Samson’s reins at the same time he handed over the leather dispatch pouch containing the letters and the package.

  Griffin accepted the pouch.

  “Anything from Lady Abernathy?”

  Griffin looked up to see Lieutenant Hughes bounding toward him, doing his best to balance three tin mugs of steaming hot coffee.

  Lieutenant Hughes or Hughey, as the men had dubbed him, had quickly come to anticipate the arrival of the mail pouches as much as Eastman and Griffin and on the days the mail pouches arrived, he and Eastman joined Griffin for coffee and the reading of Alyssa’s letters.

  Hughey enjoyed hearing the news from Abernathy Manor almost as much as Griffin, and Eastman and took a childish delight in collecting whatever surprises Alyssa sent to them.

  Griffin smiled. Hughey’s exuberance and easygoing nature had made him a favorite among his fellow officers and the men, and Griffin had gladly taken the younger man under his wing. Hughey reminded Griff of a half-grown mastiff trying desperately to find his place and to please.

  Like Eastman, Hughey rarely received mail of his own, his mother being deceased and his father being a poor and unreliable correspondent. And also like Eastman, Hughey had become the beneficiary of Alyssa’s largesse. She showered him with gifts of soaps and lotions to try, and with Christmas and Boxing Day gifts.

  Hughey treasured the scarf and stockings and mittens Alyssa knitted and the woolen blanket she sent for his horse, Bay.

  Griffin had written of the lieutenant’s loneliness, his lack of mail, and his lack of funds to purchase the little luxuries Griffin and Eastman took for granted, and Alyssa had responded by sending the young man the kinds of gifts a mother or female relative would send.

  Hughey had proclaimed himself madly in love with Lady Abernathy and swore that if anything happened to Griffin, he would journey to Abernathy Manor and sweep the widow off her feet.

  The lieutenant sat down on the cot beside Griffin. “What’s happening at the manor? Have the tulips she planted bloomed yet? Did she send us anything?”

  Eastman laughed. “It’s their anniversary,” he informed the younger man. “Anything Lady A sends this time is sure to be for my lord.”

  Hughey blushed. “Good lord, sir. Today’s your anniversary? Why hasn’t anyone mentioned it before now? Did we send her anything? You know how ladies are about anniversaries. Lady A will be heartbroken if we forgot.”

  Griffin gave the lieutenant an indulgent smile. Anyone listening to the conversation would think that Alyssa was their wife as well as his. “Our wedding anniversary is the fourth,” Griffin explained. “And we didn’t send anything.” He looked at Eastman and Hughey. “I sent the pair of blue topaz earrings and the matching pendant I purchased before we sailed. My father will see that she gets it on the fourth.”

  “That’s not enough,” Hughey pronounced, glancing at Eastman for confirmation. “Lady A has been so kind to us. We must send something else. Something unique. Something from here in Spain.”

  Griffin cleared his throat. “Hughey…”

  “With your permission, of course, sir,” Hughey added hastily.

  “He’s right, sir,” Eastman concurred. “Lieutenant Hughes and I would like to send Lady Abernathy something to mark the occasion.” He frowned. “A belated anniversary gift if you will.”

  Griffin grinned. “We’ve shared everything else since we’ve been here. We might as well share this.”

  “Capital, sir!” Hughey was fairly bubbling with excitement.

  “Though what you’ll find to send her from here is beyond me.” Griffin fixed his eyes on Hughey. “She would be most upset to think you’d sent her a gift plundered from some poor unfortunate Spanish or Portuguese woman.”

  “Not to worry, sir.” Hughey grinned a big, broad-toothed, guileless grin. “I know just the thing. The old lady who billeted us has several, and she’ll be glad to part with one for English coin.”

  “Part with what?” Griffin asked.

  “A lemon tree,” Hughey said.

  “What?” Griffin and Eastman replied simultaneously.

  “A small lemon tree in a pot,” Hughey said. “It will be perfect for the conservatory at the manor.” Hughey’s big blue eyes twinkled merrily. “And you know she’ll love it.”

  Eastman, ever the fashionable valet, frowned. “I was thinking more in terms of one of those lace mantillas the women here wear to church.” He turned to Griffin. “If you don’t think that too personal a gift, sir.”

  “Who am I to object if you wish to send her lace?” Griffin chuckled. “I’m just the lady’s husband.”

  “Good. It’s settled,” Hughey said. “Eastman will send the lace thing, and I’ll send a potted lemon tree. Together with your jewelry that should be enough to brighten Lady A’s anniversary day.” He lifted his tin coffee cup in a toast. “And when the battle is over, we’ll celebrate our victory and our anniversary with a skin of that Spanish wine—la tinta de la Mancha. Agreed?” Griffin nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Agreed,” Eastman replied.

  “Good,” Hughey pronounced. “Now let us see what Lady A has sent Major Lord Abernathy and hear the news. I’m eager to know if the tulip beds turned out the way she wanted…”

  Griffin obliged.