Helen stopped and, right there on the path, put her arms around Anna. “My poor darling. I hope…that is…was Sergeant Atkins in time?”
She blinked. “Oh! No. That is, yes. He was in time.”
“Thank God.”
Gently Anna extricated herself from the embrace. If she allowed herself to lean upon Helen, she might weep, and she meant to save that for when no one could see. “But I’d rather not dwell upon it.” She resumed her trudge up the path.
“Quite. So your time in the wilderness couldn’t seem so bad after what you’d escaped.”
She shrugged, deliberately casual. “It was a march, only with just two people, so there was less dust.”
“And no creaking oxcart wheels. I hate that sound.”
“None at all. So you see, it was positively an idyll.” She hoped her light, ironic tone would prevent Helen from suspecting the truth of her words.
“Whatever did you find to talk of with a man like Sergeant Atkins?”
She must not bristle. “Why, the same things one might discuss with anyone. Our families, our friends, the places we’ve been and where we might go.”
They stepped out of the olive grove into the clearing where the stone cottage stood. Beatriz and María waited in the doorway, the former with Charlie in her arms, the latter holding Nell by the hand.
The little girl pulled free and flew to meet them. “Mama! Cousin Anna!” After quickly embracing her mother, she clung to Anna. “I missed you. Are you come back to stay?”
She bent to hug Nell. “I missed you, too, dearest. And I’m back to stay for a time. There was a small difficulty with our convoy, so I had to return. But I must go home when I get another chance.”
“I wish you would stay always.”
“But I have no husband or father in the army now.”
“You have us.”
She hugged Nell again, took her by the hand and led her toward the house. “I’m sorry. But in a few years you’ll be old enough for long visits to your grandparents, and I’ll be at Dunmalcolm Castle to welcome you.”
“Will you teach me to fish?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Also to row and swim.”
They reached the doorway, where Helen now stood with Charlie in her arms. Nell sidled over to lean against her mother, and María and Beatriz exclaimed over Anna’s return. As she gave them a brief explanation of the circumstances, she saw two Spanish women waiting in the shadowed entry. One could’ve been anywhere between fifty and seventy, with gray hair and a lined face but a straight, proud back. Beside her stood a girl of perhaps sixteen whose large, dark eyes and aquiline nose matched her grandmother’s.
The older woman stepped forward. “This must be your husband’s cousin, Señora Gordon,” she said in Spanish. “They look very much alike.”
“Sí,” Helen said. Her Spanish, though slower and less fluent than Anna’s, was adequate, and she introduced their hostesses as Señora and Señorita Romero.
“You are welcome in my home, Señora Arrington,” Señora Romero said. “So dreadful, what you have endured these past days! But we will care for you.”
“Thank you, señora. You are very kind.”
“Would it be too much trouble to heat water for a bath?” Helen interjected.
“Not at all, señora. Elena, run to the kitchen and ask Felipa to prepare a bath in Mamá’s room.”
The girl hurried away down the narrow corridor.
“Beatriz, ask if they would like your help,” Helen said. “María, take the children upstairs. I shall be along shortly.” The servants curtsied and obeyed.
“I will show you to the room,” Señora Romero said. “No one else has stayed in it since my mother died.”
“Please, señora, I do not wish to have it if it is a special room, a shrine to her,” Anna said.
“No, no, Señora Arrington. I am sure my mother would want you to have it. She has been gone for over a year, and it would be wrong to crowd our guests together when we have sufficient room.”
She led them through a well-furnished parlor to a door at its far end. “All the other bedrooms are upstairs, but when Mama grew too old to climb the stairs, we made over the second parlor for her.”
The room was small and simply furnished, but comfortable. Along the wall to her left was a narrow bed on a sturdy olive wood frame, covered with an immaculate white coverlet. To her right was a chest, a small mirror mounted to the wall, and a table and chair. Above it hung a simple painting of a Madonna and Child.
Directly across from the door was a large window with wooden shutters. Señora Romero crossed the room and flung them open. “Beautiful, yes?”
Anna and Helen joined her to look out upon a peaceful vista of hillside, olive grove and the vividly blue Spanish summer sky.
“Very lovely,” Anna said. “And the room is beautiful, too. Thank you for giving it to me.”
“You are welcome, señora.”
They turned at the sound of footsteps. Two servants, a man and a woman, entered carrying a low hip bath, which they set on the threadbare rug in the center of the room. Señora Romero introduced them as José and Felipa, and told Anna to feel free to call on them should she have need of anything.
The servants bowed and walked out, soon returning, along with Beatriz, bearing pails and pitchers full of water. When the little tub was filled, Anna was provided with soap, towels, fresh linen and a plain white dress.
Then they left her to enjoy her bath in solitude. The water was only tepid, but any warmer would have been too much on such a hot afternoon. It felt refreshing, sore as she was from all manner of unaccustomed exertions, but she missed the stream from the night before. She blushed with guilty pleasure at the memory of bathing with Will under the open sky at sunset. She wondered if she would ever again know such complete delight. But at least she would always have her memories. She allowed herself the luxury of a brief storm of tears.
By the time Beatriz returned to help her dress, she had controlled her emotions, finished her bath and donned her shift. It was good to put clean linen over clean skin and pleasant, too, to have a respite from black bombazine. The lightweight white muslin was infinitely more comfortable. Beatriz helped her pin and tie a black sash at the dress’s high waist, then left her alone.
Anna eyed the bed longingly, hoping she had time for a nap before dinner, but before she lay down a knock sounded at the door. Helen entered, holding one hand behind her back. Anna smiled and waited. Helen loved a surprise.
“Why, darling, you look like a nun in her cell, all in black and white in a room like this.”
Anna laughed. “I can hardly imagine anyone less suited for convent life. Who would want a Church of England nun with more doubts than beliefs?” Who takes a lover in broad twilight and doesn’t regret it in the least, she finished in her head.
Helen laughed as well. “I’m glad you have such a peaceful little room—I daresay you need it now.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
“But I came to let you know dinner is in half an hour and to bring you this,” Helen said. With a flourish, she swung her right hand into view, revealing a letter. “Alec just brought it,” she said. “He’s riding out with the regiment now to rescue the convoy, with Sergeant Atkins for their guide. Alec lent him Dulcinea.”
Anna couldn’t help smiling. If Alec couldn’t persuade Will to accept gold, he would thank him by sharing his favorite horse.
“Aren’t you going to ask about your letter?” Helen said.
Anna blinked. “I’m sorry. I’m too tired to think. Who is it from?”
Helen handed her the thick missive. “Your brother. I’ll leave you to read it and come back for you at dinner.”
“Thank you, Helen.”
Helen paused with her hand on the doorknob. “What Nell said is true, Anna. You do have us. You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
She smiled, genuinely touched. “I truly appreciate the offer. But there’s real
ly no reason for me to stay. I need to go home.” It would be torture to linger so near Will, but with no way to even speak to him.
“I thought you might say so, and I understand. But after what happened, you need not seize the first opportunity to go to Lisbon. No one could blame you for waiting for an exceptionally well-guarded convoy, or even to go with the whole army when we leave for winter quarters. I expect we’ll go back to Lisbon again, unless we have a breakthrough soon. So if you wish it, you have a home with us for as long as you need.”
“That’s very kind, Helen. Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but—”
“But you’ll take the first opportunity to get yourself to Dunmalcolm.”
“If I leave too late, I won’t be there until spring.”
Helen sniffed. “I’d consider that a reason to delay. Why anyone would winter in that drafty pile of her own free will is beyond me. I’m glad Alec is the second son. When he sells out, I mean for us to purchase a modern house no further north than Northumberland. We’ll visit, of course—I do like your family, and the children should know their kinsmen—but in the summer.”
Anna brushed a curl away from her face. “I’d rather be cold at Dunmalcolm than warm anywhere else.”
“Yes, but you’re half Gordon. You’re a little mad, the lot of you.”
“And yet you married one of us and are perpetuating the madness in your children.”
“It was a love match. I was reckless,” Helen said airily.
Anna knew her answering smile must look wistful at best.
Sensing the shift in her mood, Helen sobered as well. “I’ll leave you to your letter,” she said. “I look forward to hearing how Lord and Lady Selsley are doing.” She slipped out the door, closing it behind her.
Chapter Sixteen
Anna took her letter to the desk and sat down. Finding a knife in a drawer beneath the desktop, she split the waxen seal.
She had written James and Lucy, along with her aunt and uncle and Sebastian’s mother, the day after his death. Those letters had gone out with a courier and at the least must be on a ship bound for England. But too little time had passed to expect a reply, so this must be from before.
She unfolded it, and a sketch fell out. While the charcoal had smudged in transit, it was recognizably her brother holding her niece, a sturdy toddler with a thick head of dark curls. Together they gazed over a paddock fence at a dappled Arab mare with a long-legged foal peeking around her side. Anna smiled—James must be overjoyed that his favorite mare had been safely delivered of her first foal, and Meg had grown so much since the last time Lucy had sent a sketch.
Setting the drawing aside, she checked the date at the top of the letter. James had written in late June, more than three weeks ago. Anna felt like another woman entirely than the sister James had had in mind when he took up his pen.
My dear sister,
I hope this letter finds you well, and I will open with assurances that we are all thriving. Lucy reminds me that I must tell you that Sally Harris is safe and the mother of a healthy boy.
Bless Lucy for remembering! Sally had been Anna’s lady’s maid for years and was now wed to one of the Orchard Park grooms.
As you can see from Lucy’s sketch, Ghost has a foal, a filly, whom Lucy in a flight of Shakespearean fancy has named Titania. She is black, but I believe she will lighten to a fine dapple gray like her dam. Lucy laughs over my shoulder and says Anna will think that I think Ghost’s foal of greater import than Mrs. Harris’s son, which is absurd. I am sure my sister knows that I place the life of any person above that of a mere beast.
Anna grinned. Of course James cared more about Ghost’s foal than Sally’s baby. He hadn’t bothered to include the infant’s name, nor the color of his hair. She gave her brother credit for loving his own daughter more than Ghost’s progeny, but James was simply horse-mad, the worst case in their entire family, especially when it came to his beloved Arabs.
Several paragraphs followed, describing local entertainments, the births, marriages and illnesses of their neighbors, his plans for improvements and agricultural innovations on his lands, and such news as he had of their cousins. She read rapidly until she reached the final paragraph.
I have left our most important tidings for last because of fear that what brings us joy may bring you pain, owing to the difference in our circumstances in this regard. I find myself at a loss to know what to say in a letter—one fears to say too much or too little. But know that anything that causes you pain brings me sorrow as well. Still, Lucy and I think it right that you should be among the first to know that we are now certain she is increasing again, with the child expected to arrive in November or December. Lucy assures me that she is quite well, though she has difficulty keeping food down. And I do not worry as I did the last time, for she was the same then, and she and Meg are none the worse for it. Still, I wish this business could be better managed. Women suffer too much altogether in bringing the next generation into the world.
Adieu, dear sister. Give our kindest regards to your husband and our cousins.
Anna refolded the letter. On the whole, she was happy for James and Lucy. It had been harder the first time. They had married around the same time as she and Sebastian, so Lucy’s pregnancy had seemed a rebuke upon her own failure to conceive. She had been trying then not to worry over the fact her courses had continued to arrive with clockwork regularity—it had been less than six months, after all. But she had envied Lucy, and Sebastian had subjected her to reproachful looks and bitter remarks about the damage unchastity was reputed to do to a woman’s fertility.
This time it was different. She was still jealous of Lucy’s easy fertility, and it would pain her to visit Orchard Park that autumn and see her sister-in-law great with child. But she had expected such tidings sooner or later. Lucy and James were both young enough that it would be strange if they did not have more children. And she could not live her entire life eaten up with envy over the fecundity of her friends and relations.
A rap sounded at the door, and Helen summoned her to dinner. It was a feminine affair, with only the two of them, their hostess and her granddaughter.
It set the pattern of the days that followed. She, Helen and the Romero women dined together. In the mornings Anna walked with Helen to a shooting range in a field on the opposite side of the village. Any soldiers they found there made room with good-natured jests about Amazons. She soon grew accustomed to the noise and smoke, adjusted to her pistol’s kick and learned to load, aim, and fire it with reasonable confidence.
The remainder of their time was spent on more ladylike pursuits. They called upon other officers’ wives, and one difficult morning she spent an hour with Colonel Kent. Anna bought a length of black bombazine and sewed hastily to restore herself to proper mourning. As she worked, she answered señorita Romero’s questions about what life was like for young ladies in England. In the evenings she sat with Helen and took turns reading The Scottish Chiefs aloud. She kept busy and tried to think only of the present and the future.
But alone in her room at night, the past inevitably intruded. She relived every instant she had spent with Will—the day they met, their dance, their days together, the playful night in the Vásquez cottage, and always their last night. Her body ached for his touch, and more, she missed him. She wanted to show him how far she had progressed in her shooting lessons. She wanted to hear the stories he would invent for Nell. She wanted him. But she carried on with her full days and restless nights and did her best to live with the persistent ache in her soul.
***
Sergeant Atkins had become the whispered toast of the captive soldiers by rescuing Mrs. Arrington from a rape attempt by Colonel Robuchon and stealing away with her into the night. The men regarded this as a piece of pure chivalry that ought to be memorialized in song. George Montmorency was more cynical. He knew what he had seen that morning alongside the road. If they had been discussing ways to lighten Juana Martínez’s burdens, he was the
King of Spain!
No, there was something between those two, and he even suspected them of staging that rape attempt simply to give themselves an excuse to run away together. George wasn’t sure which offended him more—that a sergeant would dare lift his eyes to a lady of rank, or that the daughter of a viscount would so sully herself as to allow his attentions.
George had never felt so miserable and powerless as he had when he awakened to discover himself a wounded prisoner of the French. His first battle had ended in ignominy almost before it began, and over the day he lay senseless under the surgeons’ care, the company’s sergeants had taken command of the situation and left him with nothing to do.
With Atkins gone, Sergeant Reynolds had in his quiet way taken charge. Without consulting George, who by then was awake, he had whispered to the surgeon Timperley that it might be best if Colonel Robuchon didn’t awaken from the blow to the head Atkins had given him. He wasn’t advocating murder. The surgeon mustn’t risk a hanging. But surely it must be possible to give the colonel enough laudanum to keep him senseless and spare them further attention from a man known to rape women and rumored to butcher prisoners.
Timperley had been happy to comply, and their remaining days in captivity had passed quietly under the merciful regime of Commandant Pelletier. One morning a few of the riflemen, peering out from the barn where they were quartered, had seen a canvas-covered wagon draw into the village square, driven by a pair of furtive-looking locals. The French battalion had marched away that very day, the wagon heavily guarded in their midst.
As promised, they had freed the captives, though they confiscated most of their weapons, leaving the company with half a dozen rifles between them—enough to afford protection from bandits and wild beasts, but too few to allow them to launch an attack on their erstwhile captors.
The Sergeant's Lady Page 19