by Karen Ranney
Patricia Anne Landers, Countess of Sherbourne, sat beside her husband, his hand held warmly between hers.
His bedchamber was a shadowed place against the bright afternoon sun. The day was fair, with not a hint of clouds in the deep blue of the sky. A faint breeze, laden with the heady scent of flowers, coaxed the thickly leafed branches of the home woods to trembling.
She had ordered the curtains and windows opened so that Gerald might enjoy the sight of Brandidge Hall in summer for one last time. But it should be a day of gloom and rain, one of wild winds and chill, because her husband was dying.
The Sherbourne estate was a splendid place, a tribute to Gerald’s love of antiquity. This room was the same, a relic of another time, a life he’d lived with his first wife, Moira.
Burgundy silk covered the walls; plaster cornices painted a soft ivory adorned the ceiling. The floor was the color of roasted chestnuts and heavily polished, reflecting the elaborately carved legs of the French furniture. A delicate-looking table, heavily inlaid, sat on one side of the room, an armoire crowned with an ornately carved design of flowers on the other. Gerald’s bed with thick columns and soaring headboard dominated the room, however.
A picture was mounted on the wall beside the bed, the scene one her husband had commissioned on his last visit to the continent. It depicted a series of gray and dusky steps descending down to a riverbank. The landscape held some significance for Gerald, she believed. But he’d never told her and she’d never asked. Some things were not mentioned between them.
Such as the portrait hanging above the mantel.
She glanced at it now, as she often had in the past hours. When she had first married Gerald, she’d not objected to its presence, having agreed to be his wife for reasons of property more than fondness. His estate had bordered her father’s land, and his wealth had greatly exceeded her family’s own dwindling coffers.
But what had begun as a marriage of convenience had altered over the years to become more, at least for her.
Gerald, however, had been a distant husband, one who insisted upon his own activities. He preferred to live in London several months of the year, or visit another one of his properties for the change of scenery. As if to placate her for his paucity of presence, he was overly generous, providing her with a large allowance and encouraging her to spend it on activities that would bring her pleasure.
As if money could ever replace the love she craved.
If he could not love her, at least he had given her David, the child of her heart.
Gerald’s breathing was growing worse, and they had added camphor pots to the room and a mustard plaster to his chest. He’d only pulled it off, complaining that it burned him. His illness had come upon him suddenly, so quickly that she had no time to prepare for the eventuality of his death.
“You should sleep, my love,” she said, standing and pressing a kiss upon his forehead. It was coldly damp, as if the fever were passing. Taking a cloth from the table, she blotted his face gently. “When you’ve rested, I’ll call David.”
Gerald opened his eyes and turned his head slowly to the side, his smile fleeting and weak. Tenderly, Patricia placed her palm against his cheek. Time was short, that much she knew from the waxen color of his face.
“Rest, Gerald,” she said gently.
“Alec,” he said, the name only a breath.
“I would send word to him, Gerald, but I don’t know where he is.”
He shook his head feebly. “There’s not enough time,” he wheezed, the effort of talking taxing his fading strength. “Tell him…”
“That you love him,” she interjected. “That you’ve always been proud of him,” she added.
He nodded weakly.
A few moments later, he spoke again. She bent close so that she could hear his words. “Tell him to care for David,” he whispered.
She nodded, pressed her fingers against his cool lips. “I shall,” she said, in an effort to reassure him.
Alec was under no constraints to provide for his half-brother. The Sherbourne fortune was inexorably tied to the entailed properties left to Alec as heir. A second son was expected to make his own way in the world.
Once more she glanced at the portrait. Even now she could not hate the woman seated there. Instead, she envied her. Moira MacRae Landers had been a beautiful woman, one whose vivacity shone through her blue eyes. She was depicted sitting on a carpet of green, not in a dress, as was more proper, but in a sapphire-blue riding habit. Her hand was resting on her son’s shoulder while Alec’s brown eyes were brimming with happiness.
Patricia bowed her head at her husband’s side. Her prayers had ceased to be for his recovery, since it was so obvious that he would not live. Now she only prayed that he felt no pain.
His lips were nearly blue, and there were deep gray circles beneath his eyes. The handsome Gerald she’d once known had become an old man in the last week. She stroked the back of his hand, leaned down, and placed her cheek upon it.
“Moira,” he suddenly said, rising up from the pillows, his voice strong and filled with joy. He looked at the far side of the bed where the hangings were drawn, a blinding smile on his face. Trembling, he stretched out his hand. Then he sighed, deeply and heavily, before collapsing back on the bed.
It took a moment for her to realize that he had died, left her in that instant with no more a farewell than a simple gasp. The surge of grief was so strong that Patricia felt it pressing against her chest like a giant fist.
Slowly she reached up and closed his eyes. Only then did she place her hands over her face and succumb to her tears.
As a leader of men, Alec had to be able to judge character quickly and accurately. In the case of Major Matthew Sedgewick, his initial impression did not improve as the hours passed.
The major proved to be reluctant to divulge information, contentious when questioned, and generally sullen. Alec was not accustomed to tolerating such belligerence. Yet Sedgewick posed a difficult problem.
Alec understood the major’s sense of betrayal at being passed over for command. He had accomplished a great deal in the last year by constructing Fort William using unseasoned troops. His current behavior, however, was not furthering his career in an army that was growing increasingly political. Instead of simply accepting the situation as it was, he was choosing, instead, to let his resentment fester.
But then, this was a man who had struck a woman. Indication enough of the deficiencies in Sedgewick’s character.
Pushing his personal feelings aside, Alec concentrated on the task at hand, a surprise inspection of a few of the soldiers’ quarters.
In larger garrisons one wife was normally allowed for every hundred soldiers. Preference was given to those women who’d been on campaign before and were used to the harsh conditions, including the fact that she must share a rough cot with her husband in a chamber that housed eight men.
Each room boasted a fireplace used both for warmth as well as cooking. From the lingering odor, the inhabitants of this particular chamber preferred their rations scorched.
He opened the chest at the end of each bed. White dress gaiters lay on the bottom, covered by waist and pouch belts. An extra blanket, two lengths of toweling, and sheeting comprised a man’s essentials. What other personal articles a soldier possessed were not to occupy more than a hand’s width and be stored at the bottom of his chest.
A few minutes later Alec left the room, followed by Sedgewick and Harrison. The sighs of relief from the occupants of the room were premature. The soldiers stationed at Fort William were about to undergo a radical change in their duties come morning.
Alec had already completed his inspection of the magazine, ordinance, and provision stores. As he had originally suspected, Fort William was not appreciably different from other English fortifications. It was built to be self-sustaining in that it boasted a brew-house and a bakery. But he had never before seen a stable where the horses were outnumbered by the pigs and cows. The assor
ted grunts, lowing, and neighing rendered speech nearly impossible.
He stared at the animal stalls. Sedgewick’s talents obviously did not extend to animal husbandry. The condition of the enclosures was as slovenly as that of the soldiers he’d seen.
“We’ve had to import the livestock, sir. As well as the grains,” Sedgewick grudgingly explained.
He didn’t need to elaborate. The emaciated condition of the inhabitants of the village attested to their near starvation. It was the same all over Scotland. Cumberland’s orders were severe and designed to punish the vanquished Highlanders.
Alec was grateful he’d chosen to quarter at Gilmuir. The stench of men and livestock wafted through the barracks, remaining long after the three men left the courtyard.
“Have the men been treated for lice?” he asked. Each soldier in his command was required to maintain a certain order about his uniform and person. Another detail on which Sedgewick was obviously lax. The men in the courtyard had not impressed him with either their cleanliness or their discipline.
His troops could be fighting in mire that day, but before they bedded down, time would be spent cleaning their weapons, polishing their brass, and shining their boots. He had discovered years ago that discipline in the details made for better soldiers. Consequently, the men in his command were more concerned about passing morning inspection than in worrying whether or not they would survive the next battle.
“Lice?” Sedgewick asked, an answer couched in the question.
“Have them bathe in vinegar and water,” Alec said. “Beginning immediately.”
Sedgewick frowned but did not respond.
“I want to meet with your commanders tomorrow morning after inspection,” Alec said as they walked down the narrow hallway leading to the front wall.
“Commanders, sir?”
“What is your objection now, Sedgewick?” he asked impatiently, glancing over his shoulder.
“I have had no need to delegate, sir,” Sedgewick said rigidly. “I oversee the details of this command myself.”
“Not an adequate way to manage a great many men, Major,” Alec said sharply.
He turned to Harrison, quietly following them. “I want a staff meeting in the morning,” he said.
His adjutant nodded.
“Let’s see about these cannon, Major,” Alec said, anxious to finish the inspection and rid himself of the other man’s company.
An hour later he left Sedgewick nursing his own petulance and gratefully returned to the chamber in Gilmuir. Removing his coat, he hung it carefully on the peg beside the door. There was no armoire in this room, nothing of the studied comfort of his home in England. But then, there hadn’t been for many years. Strange, how coming to Scotland had initiated in him a longing for all those things he had once set aside with such ease. Or perhaps it was not so much Scotland as it was the fact that he was weary of war and campaigning.
He hadn’t realized how tired he was until this last year.
He went to the fire, stood staring down at the remnants of cold ashes. How long had they been here? Years?
His aide, Donald, had already made his presence known. In addition to moving Alec’s dispatch case in here, along with a small round table and two chairs, the rubble that had littered the floor had been brushed away. The counterpane had been removed along with the mattress. In addition, Donald had placed two lanterns and a variety of stubby candles on the mantel and a thick candle in the middle of the table. Signs of progress, then, and habitation.
He sat at the table, opened his case, and retrieved his maps. His adult mind sketched in details his memory of childhood had forgotten. He divided his territory into quadrants and assigned a schedule of patrols. Beginning tomorrow, he would begin to ascertain the degree of rebellion in this section of Scotland. He doubted, frankly, that the Highlanders would ever challenge England again, so thoroughly had they been defeated.
The schedule finished, he began his report to General Wescott, his immediate superior. He carefully worded his overall impressions, along with his proposed changes in command. But he did not mention the fire or his opinion that Major Sedgewick was unfit for any type of command. Criticism of the man after only one day of observation would be seen as impulsive and rash.
But he had struck Leitis, an act Alec could not forgive.
He leaned back in his chair and surrendered to memory only hours old. Her coloring was too vibrant for her to be considered attractive in England, where a pallid appearance was all the rage. But she fit this land of sharp cliffs and rolling glens. She was taller than he had thought she would be, and too slender.
What had life been like for her since that day when the carriage had taken him home to England? Improvident thoughts, almost childish ones, as if his boyish self had escaped from the box where he’d been carefully stored all these years.
I am Ian. Words he could not speak to her. I am the boy you knew so long ago. Time had changed both of them.
He concentrated on his letter again, pushing Leitis’s face from his mind with difficulty.
He sealed the dispatch and left it on the table for Donald to take to the messenger. A nicety of his rank, a courier when he wished it. As a lowly lieutenant he had not been so fortunate. Even so, his correspondence to his family had dwindled and finally stopped years ago. He couldn’t remember why, now. It had simply become a habit not to write. An attrition of caring, perhaps, aided by the fact that he had not seen any of them for years.
His father had never been the same after his mother had died. Gone was the Earl of Sherbourne who had once laughed with abandon, who rode with his son and showed him the best fishing places along the River Brye. The man who’d taken his place was somber and stern, and had little time for the pursuit of pleasure just for the sake of it.
He’d married again, to a woman who had been sweet and kind to him. Patricia, Alec remembered, had sided with him when he had wanted to purchase his commission.
There had been, after all, few options open to the son of an earl. Either fritter his time away waiting for his father to conveniently die, or manage the properties soon to be left him. His nature despised indolence and his father’s factors left the earl well informed and ably served. Alec had never regretted his choice to serve in the military.
What would the earl say to see his current accommodations? Or even better, he thought wryly, to witness his pleasure at such Spartan conditions?
He surprised himself by pulling another piece of paper closer, dipping his quill in the inkwell, and beginning a letter to his father.
The only residual signs of the storm were the puddles in the gravel and the slow drip from the water barrels. The air was clear, as it was after a storm, but it still tasted sourly of smoke.
The journey across the land bridge was slow out of deference to the age of two of her companions.
Leitis had not been to Gilmuir since the day the English came. That afternoon she had stood upon a high hill and watched as the castle was systematically destroyed. The cannon had sounded like thunder; the fist of God knocking the old fortress to the ground, brick by brick. It had taken two days for it to finally crumble, and she had watched the destruction of the MacRae stronghold in a bitter kind of joy.
A shameful admission, but at the time she had been grieving for Marcus and for her family. It had seemed a right and proper thing that Gilmuir should be razed. She had been so filled with rage and pain that she had wanted others to suffer as well. It appeared as if she had gotten her wish after all. All of Scotland now wept.
Fort William loomed like a squat monster on the landscape. A stark red from the distance, it appeared even uglier up close.
She gathered her courage into little parcels, tying it together with a net made of sheer bluster. She didn’t pretend that their errand would be easily accomplished. But Hamish did not deserve to die for his foolishness.
She pulled down on her sleeves, a nervous gesture, but no amount of tugging would make them come below her e
lbows. Of pale blue, this was the least favorite and the most ill-fitting of her four dresses. Now it was the only garment she owned.
“There’s no door,” Ada said, staring at the front of the fort. “Only those windows.”
“They’re for cannon,” Malcolm said, squinting at the wall.
“How do we get in?” Mary asked.
“Perhaps we should walk around to the rear,” Leitis suggested.
“They have no guards about,” Malcolm said.
“We don’t pose much of a threat,” Leitis replied.
“Still and all, I’m not in a mood to be shot because I’m skulking around an English fort.”
Leitis frowned at him, led the way down the end of one long wall, only to find a courtyard, one filled with soldiers and animals. For a moment Leitis could only blink in amazement at the scene.
In the corner a man was stirring a huge wooden wash pot with a long-handled pole. And in another corner men bathed in what looked like troughs, splashing each other and yelling as an odor reminiscent of brine wafted in the air, vying with the animal smells.
“Dear Saint Columba,” Mary whispered, “they’re all naked as the day they were born.”
“Not quite,” Ada said with a chuckle. “They’re a bit larger than bairns.”
Malcolm sent Ada a fierce look, but she only wiggled her eyebrows back at him.
“We’ve come at wash day,” Leitis said, startled.
“And not simply sheeting and clothes, either,” Mary said.
“You’d think the lot of you had never seen a naked man before,” Malcolm muttered.
“I’ve never seen an Englishman,” Mary said, moving closer to Leitis. The four of them huddled in the corner, pressed together so tightly that they could feel each other breathe.
“What do we do now?” Ada asked.
“Find the colonel,” Malcolm offered. “Unless he’s bathing, too.”
“Do you suppose it’s some sort of English ritual?” Mary asked, peering over Leitis’s shoulder.
“If it is,” Leitis said, “I doubt it’s repeated in winter.”