Fortune's Bride

by Roberta Gellis

  “I have spoken to my brigade,” Fane said, with just a shade of stiffness in his voice.

  “What I want to know,” Rowland Hill put in smoothly, “is what Delaborde thinks he is doing on that silly hill in the middle of nowhere. If the information we have about his guns is correct, he can’t hope to hold us off with artillery. As the ground lies, he’s just asking to be encircled and swallowed. I wonder, could Delaborde have more guns than we believe? Could he know more of Loison’s position than we do?”

  “Anything is possible,” Sir Arthur admitted without a shade of worry, “but it is my belief that Delaborde is afflicted with the same conviction as the Portuguese. Frankly, I am convinced he thinks we are afraid of the ‘invincible’ French. I imagine he hopes that we will either retreat or sit here trying to find the courage to attack until Junot’s main force comes up from Lisbon.”

  There was a low, throaty sound in the room. Robert was surprised by it for a split second and then, as he realized he was contributing to it himself by growling like an animal, he almost laughed. Gentility, he thought, was spread very thin when a man’s courage was brought into question, and Sir Arthur he realized with another near spurt of laughter, had deliberately poked his finger into a sore spot. How many of his officers did think Bonaparte’s troops were invincible? How many might have counseled caution before Sir Arthur had made that statement? Robert repressed a temptation to smile. Not one would do so now.

  Quite naturally, Sir Arthur now moved into the planning stage of this conference. Just as Robert had surmised, there was not a single protest or suggestion that more reconnaissance might be necessary. Indeed, the only objections voiced at all, and those were humorous, were by the officers relegated to reserve positions. Once the general designations were made, Sir Arthur suggested that they have dinner before they got down to particulars.

  The night of August 15 was the worst of Esmeralda’s life since that of her mother’s death. She had not worried much at first. Occasionally Robert had come in very late, even when they had been at Figueira. However, by midnight she had given up hope and gone to bed. Over and over she told herself that there were endless reasons for his absence, but none she could think of gave her any comfort. Even the most harmless, that Sir Arthur had required some service that sent Robert too far to return to Caldas, implied some serious situation had arisen. And there was the recurring fear that the quiet evenings had become boring and that Robert simply preferred being with his cronies.

  She now cursed herself for telling Robert there was no need to keep her informed of his whereabouts if it was inconvenient to do so. At the time it had seemed wise to her, but now she feared it was an excuse he had seized eagerly. But painful as it was, that idea was preferable to the fear that the army had met the French and Robert had been hurt. She had told herself that Sir Arthur would not have neglected to inform her, but would he? He might be too busy if the British had suffered a serious reverse or even if they had had an important victory, to think about one woman. Nor was Esmeralda sure that Sir Arthur knew she was in Caldas. What if he had sent a message to Leiria?

  At that point, Esmeralda remembered she was less than four miles from the army. Had there been a battle, she would have heard the artillery. Still, when Robert’s messenger arrived, she barely managed to tell Molly to offer the man, who identified himself as Tom Pace, something to eat and drink. She read Robert’s note, standing quite still in the middle of the bedroom fighting her terror. All women fear for their menfolk who are exposed to the dangers of war, but Esmeralda’s situation was far more painful than that of most others. She had no family, no close friends. Robert was all she had in the world.

  It was possible for Esmeralda to face the fact that she might not be able to make Robert love her or be able to hold on to the marriage, because she knew that even if the legal relationship were severed she would not lose Robert completely. She was certain they were good enough friends by now that he would never abandon her. She did not wish to make do with half a loaf, with a friend instead of a lover, but to think that she might never see him again, never talk to him again, never laugh with him again, nearly unseated her reason.

  Esmeralda had been emotionally isolated for years after her mother’s death. She had grown accustomed to that cold state. Then, at the governor’s ball in India, Robert had brought a tiny but glowing warmth into her life. She had no thought that the feeling could ever be more than a lovely memory, but she had cherished it. Their meeting in Portugal, their marriage, had enlarged that little core of warmth. Not only had Esmeralda’s love for Robert developed from a dream into a consuming passion, but their relationship had opened to her a wealth of real human contacts, however Esmeralda believed that every one of those contacts depended upon Robert.

  She would have had hysterics if the need to obtain more information from the messenger had not been so acute. Having lost all sense of time while she was locked into her terror of losing the one human being in all the world who had meaning for her, Esmeralda ran into the kitchen in a flurry of fear that the soldier had eaten his fill, rested sufficiently, and already departed. But in reality, less than a quarter of an hour had passed.

  As she paused just outside the open door to assume a calm she did not feel, she heard the soldier tell Molly that M’Guire’s unit had not been engaged in the action. Esmeralda heard Molly’s sigh of relief.

  “It was a nothing of a business,” the man said, “and not a one of us would have been hurt, only it was such fun to chase the Frenchies, we got a bit carried away.”

  Just then Molly saw Esmeralda and stood up. Tom Pace also stood, and Esmeralda bent her lips into a smile. She was a good actress from long experience, the smile looked natural. “Please sit down, both of you,” she said. “I hope I will not make you feel awkward if I join you. Molly, would you be kind enough to get me a cup of tea, too? I have so many questions, and I didn’t want to wait until you finished your meal, Pace. Also, I don’t know when you must report back.”

  Pace had resumed his seat, a little stiffly, but he answered readily enough. “I have time, ma’am. I’m on sick list.”

  “Are you hurt?” Esmeralda asked. “Is there something Molly can do for you?”

  “No, ma’am, thank’ee. I was hit in that little set-to we had, but it’s nothing. The ball was near spent—only it caught me in a place so’s I can’t hold a gun. Be right as rain in a week.”

  The thoughtful interest Esmeralda had shown had relaxed him, and he sat more easily and answered Esmeralda’s questions with considerable verve. Of course, a common trooper knew very little, but the ranks were rife with rumor and this he relayed with gusto. In this case, it so happened, the rumors were not far off from the truth.

  The French, Pace said, were holding a position somewhere not far south of Óbidos. If they were not doing so, he pointed out, Sir Arthur would not have stopped the march. He would have sent more screening parties ahead while the main force advanced cautiously as they had been doing. He also said they would attack the French the next day. His evidence for this was more tenuous. It rested on the facts that inspections were being carried out on the men’s fighting gear and battle drill was being practiced.

  Having drunk her tea and obtained every scrap of rumor Tom Pace had heard, much of it so wild that Esmeralda, frightened as she was, had sense enough to dismiss it, she went upstairs to her own room. At first she felt only relief. A day’s respite had been granted her. For one more day Robert would be safe.

  However, the day’s reprieve soon became more painful than pleasant. Her mind ran from one misery to another. If Robert did not come—and it was not likely that he could because Sir Arthur’s staff must be constantly employed before a battle—there was a chance she would never see him again. Esmeralda’s throat closed so tight that she could not breathe. Black swirled before her eyes, and her mind blanked in a near faint so that she gasped air unconsciously. As she swam toward consciousness some defensive mechanism inside her shut
away that ultimate terror. She fixed on a safer problem.

  If Robert found time to visit, how was she to control herself? Even if she said nothing, he would see the fear in her eyes. Would she be able to speak without bursting into tears? Suddenly she remembered Molly’s sigh of relief when Pace said M’Guire’s company had not been involved. Molly had been an army wife for years. How did she bear it?

  Esmeralda ran down the stairs and peeped cautiously into the kitchen. Pace was gone, she saw with relief, and Molly was bending over the sink, probably washing the dishes. For one moment Esmeralda’s pride struggled with her misery. Was it wrong to show her fear to a servant? In the next instant she knew she did not care what was right or wrong.

  “Molly,” she said, “aren’t you afraid?”

  The woman turned from the sink and, seeing Esmeralda’s face, put down the cup and hurried forward wiping her hands on her skirt. “Och, me luv,” she said, “’tis ye’er first toime. Sure Oi’m afeared, but ye’ev t’ remimber he’s no th’ onny one. Ye’er thinkin’ that ivry gun on t’other soide’s pointed at him onny, but ‘t’isn’t true. Theer’s thousinds uv ‘em. Think. Me first man, he wuz i’ action many a toime, but it wuz th’ fever got him.”

  Esmeralda sat down heavily on a chair, and Molly sat down opposite her this time without invitation. She understood that for this little while they were two women together not mistress and maid.

  “But I have no one else, no one else in the world,” Esmeralda quavered. “You have your mother and your daughter. I have no one.”

  “Ye’er a young bride ‘nd in luv,” Molly soothed. “It seems so, surely, but…”

  “No, it is true,” Esmeralda insisted, and told Molly about her father and her life in India.

  “Poor luv,” the older woman said, “I cin see thit he’s moor precious thin most, ‘nd o’coorse ye feel thit he stands oot t’all as he stands oot t’ ye, but ‘tis no true. Ind he’s staff, too. Y’know, if th’ battle goes loike Sir Arthur planned, staff wun’t even be neer. Thiy’ll sit on a hill wit th’ gineral ‘nd watch. That’s why th’ dukes ‘n th’ earls are willin’ t’ send theer young’uns oot as staff.”

  There was no bitterness in Molly’s voice and only kindness and concern in her face, but Esmeralda again became aware of the gulf between them. What Molly said about the possibility that Robert would never be involved in the fighting at all was true. Moreover, even if he should be hurt, his chances of survival were many times greater than that of the ordinary soldier. Robert would be missed and searched for. He would be treated before any common trooper. He would be transported behind the lines separately with more care. And all the rest was true, too. She had been feeling as if every single enemy gun would be trained upon Robert just because he was so precious to her.

  “I’m being very foolish, I’m afraid,” Esmeralda said with a watery smile.

  “Well, y’are,” Molly agreed, smiling also. “No fer fearin’. We all fear. There’s no help fer thit. But ‘tisn’ goin’ t’ help him fer ye t’ be faintin’ ‘nd whoinin’ wit red eyes ‘nd a pale face whin he comes back roarin’ wit good spirits—fer that’s how he’ll come—and a stink on him loike ye wouldn’t believe. So ye’ll want changes fer him from breeks out. Now, ‘tisn’t lady’s woork t’ wash smalls, but ye’ll be th’ better for somethin’ t’ do, so what say we do all frish ‘nd clean?”

  “Yes,” Esmeralda agreed, “I’d like that.”

  It was not that she lacked employment. She had several gowns cut that needed stitching up and tasteful embellishment with bows of ribbon and knots of floss, but she could not bear to work toward an adornment Robert might never see. It was very steadying to the spirit, on the other hand, to clean his clothing because she expected him “home with a stink on him”. That was real, a fixed idea to cling to, Robert striding in with his eyes sparkling, “in roaring good spirits”, to tell her all about what had happened, and her listening eagerly until the main points were out and then telling him to change his clothing while she set out their supper and their wine.

  But even that was not enough. Washing clothing could not keep her occupied until Robert’s return. She felt she had to know moment by moment what was happening. For today, she really did know. Tom Pace had described the activities of the camp, and even to a certain extent of the officers, vividly enough to make a satisfactory picture in Esmeralda’s mind. Everyone was preparing. She washed clothes, the men cleaned and checked their weapons, went over their drill, the officers planned and conferred. But what of the next day? All the preparations would be finished. Robert’s clothes would be clean and dry. There would be nothing for her to do but wait, and she could not simply wait without knowing.

  Esmeralda gave the kettle a hasty stir and went out. Just before she entered the stable, she stopped to consider what she was about to do. If Robert ever learned of it, he would be furious and might send her away. But why should he hear of it? Very likely it would not even be possible and, in any case, she would have plenty of time to change her mind.

  “Carlos,” she called.

  There was a delay, and Esmeralda repeated her call more sharply, hoping that the boy had not run off. He had been sulking ever since they had been left behind. At Leiria he had begged Robert to be allowed to go along with the army rather than following with Esmeralda, crying passionately that he had come to fight the French. Robert had given him as stern a lecture as his limited Portuguese and Carlos’s limited English had allowed, pointing out that he was useful to Esmeralda but that he would be a useless burden with the army. He was untrained and too small to hold a gun, even if anyone was lunatic enough to teach him how to load and fire one.

  To their horror, Carlos had said that he was not too small to follow the soldiers and use a knife. That had called forth an even sterner lecture on the rules the English obeyed concerning prisoners and wounded enemies. Everyone had heard horror stories—all the more horrible for being true—of the torture and murder of sick and wounded French stragglers by the Portuguese peasants. Admittedly, the French army’s custom of living off the land had worked great hardship on the peasants. Moreover some French commanders had ferociously repressed any resistance in towns they were able to control. The mass executions, sacrilege, and brutality Loison had permitted, and some said encouraged, at the sack of Évora were a byword all over Portugal. But the behavior of one army to another did not permit such excesses, and Robert made it clear that if Carlos wished to remain with the British, he would have to abide by their rules.

  Carlos answered Esmeralda’s second summons, however, and the dreadful vision that had begun to take hold of her dissipated. She smiled with relief and because she knew that what she was about to ask the boy to do would make him happy and keep him harmlessly occupied.

  “I would like you to go around the town,” Esmeralda said, “and ask whether there is a retired ship’s officer or the widow of a ship’s officer living here. What I desire is to borrow a glass.”

  “A glass? Have we no glasses to drink from?” Carlos asked, astonished. “And why must we borrow from—”

  “No, no,” Esmeralda interrupted. “Not a glass from which to drink, but the kind one puts to one’s eye to see things a long distance away. If that is called something different here, use the right word.”

  The boy’s eyes brightened at once. “You wish to watch the battle?” he asked, his voice shaking with excitement.

  “Yes,” Esmeralda admitted, her own voice shaking a little, “but do not tell anyone that. Say…say I am a mad Englishwoman and I wish to…to watch the birds.”

  Carlos burst into giggles, but then he frowned. “But you will not be able to see anything from here. Even with what you call a glass, it is too far. Besides, we are too low. There are trees and buildings in the way.”

  “First find me a glass,” Esmeralda replied, “and then we will consider a place from which to use it.”

  By noon, shortly after Esmeralda had finished her launde
ring, Carlos returned almost dancing with glee, to say that he had heard of just such a man as Esmeralda needed. She was hot and tired, and, as Molly had predicted, physical labor had reduced her tension and dulled her fear. She might have abandoned her wild project except for the positive change in Carlos. It could do no harm, she told herself, to try to borrow the telescope. Very likely whoever owned it would be unwilling to lend it to a perfect stranger.

  Thus, Esmeralda went upstairs and changed into a beguilingly simple confection of sprigged muslin trimmed with dark-blue ribbons, which she and Molly had finished the day before. She put on a charming straw bonnet, purchased in Leiria—the hat was safely stowed away, a precious relic now—and set out with Carlos. He led her to a large, handsome house near the center of the town. When she saw the place, Esmeralda was taken aback. She had envisioned dealing with someone like a tradesman.

  However far from being turned away at the door, as she expected, she was welcomed in with grave courtesy by an elderly, one-legged servant as soon as she identified herself as the wife of an English officer. Carlos was dismissed to the kitchen quarters. Esmeralda was told that she would be taken to the master of the house, Dom Aleixo de Solis, and led to a large room furnished in a handsome, heavy style but embellished with carvings, ivories, and brasses, which could only have come from India. Before she thought, she had exclaimed in recognition and with a quaver of homesickness in her voice.

  “Ah, you know India, Senhora Moreton.”

  Esmeralda turned to see a very thin, old gentleman with a fringe of white hair surrounding a bald head seated in a large, cushioned chair near a window. Instinctively she curtsied, and the old man smiled.

  “Forgive me for not rising, senhora, it is not possible for me.”

  “Oh, please.” Esmeralda made a gesture of appeal. “It is I who should ask pardon, Dom Aleixo, for intruding upon you without a proper introduction, or—”