By October, when Captain Falk sent Amy a plumpish black-clad doll named Doña Barbara for her fourth birthday, Emily had begun to entertain much friendlier feelings for her employer. Although their letters had come, insensibly, to contain more than quixotic fictions and accounts of Tommy's teething, an invisible boundary of reserve remained and Captain Falk never crossed it. Perhaps that was just as well. It is comparatively easy to be witty, even friendly, on paper. In the flesh Emily had not found the man agreeable, nor did she moon over him now. Not moon, exactly. Merely, she allowed herself to wish him well.
That she took to reading the war news in her father's London newspaper with greater interest than she had heretofore felt was perfectly reasonable. She asked to borrow the papers with some self-consciousness, but no one commented on her sudden patriotism, not even Aunt Fan, who had always read the war news.
It had been necessary, for example, after Emily had carefully perused the casualty lists, to require Captain Falk to send an account of the Battle of Vitoria for Aunt's edification. His reply came quicker than its predecessors. The advance of the army into northern Spain had opened the northern ports to English shipping, and one could now almost count on three weeks, or with luck a fortnight, between letters.
The account Captain Falk sent of King Joseph's captured baggage was very funny, though Peggy McGrath was dismayed to have missed the prime chance for plunder of the entire war. She spent several days lamenting the cruelty of her fate to Emily's unexpressed shock. Though she had grown fond of Peggy, Emily knew she would never wholly understand the woman.
Emily did not understand Captain Falk, either. It took her several days to realise that she knew little more of the battle after reading the Vitoria letter than she had known before. Other officers wrote letters, some of which were published in the newspapers, with excellent accounts of the fighting. Captain Falk's was vague and prosaic. Emily did not, she wrote him, expect the real-life equivalent of Doña Inez but rather more detail would be welcome to Aunt Fan and to his obliged servant, Emily Foster. This time the reply was slow in coming.
She had received the account of Vitoria in early July and fired off an immediate reply, which she calculated ought to have been in his hands well before the first of August. With luck she could expect something by the fifteenth. She sat back happily to await a fuller account.
On the third, however, the first word came of Soult's counterattack through the epic Pass of Roncesvalles. The Army of the Pyrenees were hotly engaged over a wide front. Aunt Fan read the daily dispatches eagerly, Emily with dread.
She had made a very stupid mistake. If Captain Falk were killed now she must not only deal with Amy's baffled grief but also with Matt's. As for her own feelings, her mind shied away from examining them. It would be quite dreadful to have no more of Doña Inez and Doña Barbara.
At the end of the week she was relieved to find an amiable answer to her request for more detail of Vitoria. Captain Falk pointed out that he had spent the first part of the battle pinned down behind a hedge with his company and the latter part in dogged pursuit of the retreating French, so his field of vision had been limited, and oughtn't Emily to consult the newspapers? They were never accurate, but journalists quite often saw more than ten yards on either side. That was prosaic. Unfortunately it also made good sense.
Smiling at her own disappointment Emily started to turn the page to peruse Doña Inez's latest adventure when the date on the first page caught her eye--23 July 1813. The day before the French attacked. What good was that!
Ten days elapsed with no word from Spain. It was true that the newspaper accounts did not list Captain Falk among the casualties. It was also true, as Aunt Fan pointed out with unconscious cruelty, that the returns were scattered and incomplete. The fighting had dragged on for a week, and it had been fierce.
Matt and Amy drank in the latest episode of Doña Inez with oblivious glee. Indeed they demanded its retelling so often Emily grew downright snappish. That baffled them. Guiltstruck, Emily forced herself to read the tale again con brio.
When the letter came at last it contained no apology for the delay--indeed, Emily realised ruefully, it showed no consciousness that there had been delay. It was briefer than usual, and rather hard to decipher, being composed, as the author pointed out, in a tent during a downpour. Doña Inez's adventure was a lackluster affair. The children heard it with their usual hopeful enthusiasm. No taste.
Emily did not ask for any details of the Battle of the Pyrenees. A week before Amy's October birthday the newspapers reported that the Duke of Wellington had crossed the Bidassoa into France.
Amy received Doña Barbara the doll with complaisance. There were other gifts. Sir Henry gave her a handsome English doll, a milkmaid blonde with a fetching straw bonnet who entered into a complex three-way relationship with the black-clad Spanish ladies. Emily allowed the little girl to use one of the window seats in the nursery as a doll parlour. When Matt came the superior male, as he still sometimes did, Amy would turn her back on him and retreat to the company of her ladies, with whom she carried on long discussions in Spinglish.
For the most part Amy and Matt squabbled amiably. They even worked out a system for sharing the rocking horse. It began to look jaded from too much galloping over the plains of La Mancha.
Emily felt some satisfaction that her reasons for taking up baby-farming were proving out so well. She ought to have been pleased that Sir Henry now accepted her curious household--he even boasted about it to his friends--but her feelings were not so simple. She had grown thoroughly entwined in the lives of the Falk children. She triumphed at Tommy's first step--March--rejoiced when Amy finally learned to count in English--April--and flinched when Tommy's first word was Mama--May.
The trouble was, she foresaw only unhappiness for herself and the children whether Captain Falk lived or were killed. If he lived, and, as now seemed possible, the war ended, he would take the children away to some garrison town--or even, God forbid, India. If he were killed...
Unfortunately for Emily's sanity, the Duke of Wellington seemed determined to give her no respite. The army had not gone into winter quarters as usual. In stately succession followed the battles of the Nive and Orthez. Glorious, said Aunt Fan. Emily had never been so out of sympathy with her aunt's sentiments.
To complicate matters, the winds in the Bay of Biscay waxed surly. The army had invested Toulouse before Emily received word that Captain Falk had got his majority by brevet--the Nive--and been slightly injured in a fall from his horse--Orthez. "Just a scratch," he wrote, with what she considered unnecessary malice.
As the bells of Mellings Parva announced Bonaparte's abdication and the subsequent costly victory of Toulouse, Emily received a curt note, sans Spanish romance, to the effect that Captain Falk, now Major Falk, was coming home.
That was her first interpretation of his letter. Rereading after her initial flurry of relief subsided, she was forced to another version. Owing to his rise in rank he was compelled to exchange into a new regiment, and that regiment were bound for North America where the former colonists were still in arms. He meant first to escort a wounded friend to England. Time pressed. If she had questions that required his response perhaps she had best write his solicitor. In short he was not "coming home" to Wellfield House.
That infuriated Emily. Surely he owed his children as much consideration as he owed a mere friend. She wrote a scathing letter and posted it, fuming, to Toulouse. She placed no reliance on his sense of parental duty, however, so she did not tell the children that their father would soon be in England. Thus, when Peggy's black-avised husband rode up one fine May evening leading a fat, intelligent looking pony, Matt and Amy were galvanised with joy.
"Eustachio!" they cried with one voice.
Part II
Tom Conway
1813
7
Tom Conway felt slack and dull with too much sleep. If he lay still the pain was a mere nagging below his left shoulder blade. Excep
t for the crackle of the fire and the dripping of rain off the eaves the room was still. He could hear the sound of Richard Falk's pen scratching across foolscap. Tom turned his head.
Richard, in shirt-sleeves, his deplorable French coat thrown carelessly across the back of his chair, bent to his task.
"'Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr. Gibbon.'"
Richard's hand stilled before he went on with his writing. After a few minutes of steady application he stopped, sanded the page, and stood. He held the sheet to the light of the flickering candle, scowling at it. Then he set it down and picked up the candle. "I take it you've decided to rejoin the living."
Tom drew a sharp breath as unwelcome recollection came flooding back. "Temporarily. You're a damned provocative sort, Richard. From anyone else I'd take that as a slip of the tongue."
"From me it had to be deliberate." Richard's face, momentarily illumined by the unsteady light of the candle, was drawn and tired. A smear of ink decorated one cheek bone He set the candle on the small table by the couch upon which Tom lay, and went to the scullery. There was a clanking noise and presently Richard returned minus the smear and bearing two half filled glasses.
"If I drink another brandy," Tom said dreamily, "I shall puke on your boots."
"Not for the first time."
"I was devilish seasick, wasn't I?"
Richard's rare smile lit his face. He put the glasses down and sat on the rickety chair by the bedside. "Epically." He stretched, arching like a cat, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.
"Epically. Is that what you're working at?"
Richard cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "My latest epic? It's finished. I was just copying the last chapter for the printer."
"When did you find time to write it?"
"Not aboard ship, to be sure." Richard took up his brandy, warming it in his hard, capable hands. He took a swallow, and leaning his head against the high back of the chair, gazed at nothing.
What a clump of contradictions he was. Tom closed his eyes, drifting. A cross-grained, sour-tongued, inconsistent bastard. He opened his eyes, staring at the freshly limed ceiling. The timbers were heavy black bars across the white. Black and white. Life and death. Death. Bastard, he thought, and realised with a clutch of dismay that he had spoken the word aloud.
Richard said quietly, "Now who's provoking?"
"How long have we been here in Rye?" Tom turned his head to look at his friend, then looked away. There was no use apologising. With Richard there never was. Son of a whore.
"Nearly a fortnight. Tomorrow you are going to walk with me along the strand."
"Delightful. What if it's still pouring rain?"
"In the teeth of a gale, if necessary."
"Why?"
"Because you're beginning to resemble one of the lower vegetables. I find that disturbing."
Tom took another careful breath and was surprised to find that the pain stayed at the same level. It could almost be called an ache. "Very well." Realisation struck him. "A fortnight! My God, Richard, how much time do you have left to you?"
"Eight days. I can stretch it to nine. Time to walk to Deal. Or we could make a sentimental pilgrimage to Shornecliff. Do you recall the delights of Shornecliff? Running up sheer bluffs in full gear. Prancing about in a December surf--"
"What about your children?"
"Flourishing, I trust."
Tom twisted and regretted the movement. "You will board the mail coach tomorrow and set out for Hampshire. For Christ's sweet sake," he gasped, "you've not seen them in two years!"
"Twenty months." Richard's voice was calm. "Lie back, you lout. You'll rip something open."
Tom obeyed, gritting his teeth against the sickening contraction of his ruined back muscles. For a time he thought he would indeed puke on his friend's boots. Presently the room stopped heaving. Something cool touched his sweating face. A wet cloth.
"My God, how shall I stand it?"
The cloth touched his brow again.
"How?" he repeated, angry.
"I don't know how," Richard said quietly, "but you will."
"Easy for you to say."
Richard did not respond.
Presently Tom's breathing steadied.
"'Thou knowest, 'tis common, All that lives must die, Passing through Nature to Eternity.'" Richard's voice was wry and sad.
Tom said bitterly, "Aye, it is common. But not easy."
He felt the cloth touch his face again. Richard did not speak, for which Tom was grateful. He knew he was behaving badly. When he could command his patience, he said, "Where's Sims?"
"I sent him to see about food. You'll have to eat something solid for a change."
Tom swallowed. "You can stop soothing my fevered brow."
Richard rose and carried the cloth and a basin which had apparently been sitting on the uneven floor into the scullery. Tom followed him with his eyes. Richard was a long time about his chore. The back door opened. Was he leaving? Do I care? Tom stared at the ceiling. A spider dangled coyly from the middle beam, almost motionless in the still air. "Did you give up?" Tom whispered. The spider continued to dangle.
He heard the back door close. Richard entered, his hair damp. "Raining," he said unnecessarily. "Spring squall. It'll blow over by morning." He walked over to the spindly secretary, shoving his hair from his eyes with an impatient hand. "Damn."
"What is it?"
"I've blotted my blasted copybook." He leaned one hand on the desk and moved the sheet of foolscap carefully out of range.
"Why do you write that tripe?"
"Money."
"Is there money in it?"
Richard straightened, wriggling his shoulders as if they ached. "Enough. I screwed twenty more pounds out of Hitchins this time." He turned, a fugitive smile in his eyes. "I thought I could intimidate him better in person than by post. I was right."
Tom felt his mouth quirk in unwilling response.
"Easier?"
"Yes."
"Good. What do you say to the brandy now?"
"I say no. Finish your own, however."
Obediently, Richard sat once again by the daybed and toyed with the brandy glass.
"Fool."
Richard raised his glass in ironic salute and tossed off the contents.
"I want you to leave tomorrow," Tom said and knew he lied. The realisation surprised him.
"When you're on your feet."
"No. Tomorrow. Your children..."
"I don't intend to go to Hampshire."
"Then why the devil did you come home with me? I thought that was the excuse you gave Daddy Hill." General Hill was notoriously softhearted.
Richard set the empty glass carefully on the small table.
"Why?"
"To see Hitchens and deliver the manuscript."
"If you think I need a nursemaid--"
"If I hadn't come Bevis would have. Your affinity for the sea is well known."
"Sims--"
"Rather hard on Sims, don't you think? It took two of us. Three," he amended thoughtfully. "McGrath lent a hand, too."
"Where's McGrath?" McGrath was Richard's servant, a black Irishman with a villainous squint and the disposition of a camel.
"Dallying with his wife."
"In Hampshire?"
Richard inclined his head.
Tom drew a breath. "Then I think you should join him."
"I never meant to go down to Mellings. Why should I?"
"Why! My God."
Richard rose, walked to the leaded window and stood staring out at the distant mass of the sea. He did not speak.
"I don't understand you."
"You're not required to."
"God damn your eyes," Tom said softly. "I may not be required to, but I will." Very slowly and with exquisite care he rolled to his left side and swung his long, breeches-clad legs over the edge of the couch. It was sudden sharp motion that hurt.
He levered himself to a sitting position by careful inche
s, his arm shaking with the strain of bearing his weight. He straightened. When he thought he would not faint, he said, "Tell me."
Richard whirled. In half a second he was across the room, eyes dark with anxiety. "Tom, don't...you can't."
Tom fended his friend off with a shove of his undamaged right arm. "I can do whatever I put my mind to," he said through clenched teeth. "Tell me."
"Yes. Very well, but let me help you lie down first. You're not ready for heroicks quite yet."
"What about...walk...on the strand...tomorrow?"
"Hush." Frowning, Richard slipped his right arm around Tom's shoulders, bracing one knee on the bed frame and one booted foot on the floor. "Easy, now. There. No more of that tonight." His touch was hard, and cold from the damp air, but he seemed to know what to do and he was deft and surprisingly gentle. Lying back down was less hurtful than sitting.
Restored to his former state, Tom glared at the ceiling. The eaves dripped musically. The spider had swung up, pulling her lifeline with her. The filament quivered. "Tell me," he said gratingly.
Richard resumed his seat. "I came with you because I knew what the sawbones would tell you. Lord Bevis was oversanguine."
"You knew?" The surgeons had told Tom he would be lucky to live five years. Loose metal and bone fragments were wandering about his insides, and one piece, a nasty chunk of brass, lodged dangerously near his spine. Though the surgeons' verdict had not been unexpected it had been a hard blow.
"Another lapse of the tongue. I didn't know what they'd say. I surmised. In any case I thought they'd hack you about again. I didn't think you should be alone. Besides, you'd be needing to find lodgings, and I meant to see to that and to be assured you were well served before I left. And on your feet, if possible."
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