They reached the carriage, and the coachman sprang down to hand them inside. As they began to roll toward Orchard Park, Anna smiled ruefully at her sister-in-law. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I realize I placed you in an awkward position, but I couldn’t leave her there.”
“No, but you could have alerted the parish authorities.”
“She doesn’t want to go to the workhouse.”
Lucy gazed out the window, her face carefully blank. “I understand. I do. But as nursery maid—and she’ll be bringing that boy with her! I have to think of the girls.”
A great anger and impatience welled up within Anna. “If you’re afraid that your daughters will be polluted by the society of the son of a common soldier,” she snapped, “then I must tell you that the damage is already done.”
She expected an exclamation of shock and outrage and was almost disappointed when Lucy merely turned to face her again. “Anna, don’t be absurd. Whatever Arthur’s father may be, your son will not bring contagion into the nursery, or—” she shuddered and touched a hand to the thick brown hair that peeped from beneath her bonnet, “—lice.”
Of course. Lucy was so perfectly the lady that Anna had almost forgotten that her first nine years had passed in London poverty bordering upon squalor. Now she had an obsession with cleanliness and horror of disease, her way of reassuring herself that Lady Selsley would never again be sickly, dirty Lucy Jones of London.
“Certainly they must have baths first,” she said gently, “and be provided with fine-toothed combs.”
Lucy stared at her hands. “I suppose. I—I simply cannot bear the thought of the girls having lice.”
“They won’t,” Anna assured her.
“And, Anna—” Lucy looked up, again the poised, confident young viscountess. “I know you felt obliged to help that woman, but—”
“You’d rather I didn’t go about hiring strange people I meet on the high street to be your servants.”
“Exactly. One likes to have a character for a new servant. And we cannot rescue every waif. Orchard Park can only employ so many, and even your brother’s fortune isn’t infinite.”
Anna sighed. “If men are willing to die for England, England ought to care for their widows and orphans. It isn’t right for a soldier’s son to go hungry.”
“It isn’t right for any child to go hungry,” Lucy said stoutly.
“No, of course not,” Anna agreed, reaching out to squeeze Lucy’s hand. “But it makes me angrier when it’s a soldier’s child. They’re my people.”
“They are, aren’t they? You—you almost seemed more yourself talking to that woman in the dirt than you do at Orchard Park with us.”
Anna stared out at the gentle, green countryside. “I didn’t think of it before Arthur came. All that mattered was getting to someplace safe and seeing him safely born. And afterward I was so ill. But now that I feel myself again, I cannot go back.”
“Cannot go back to what?”
“To the life I led before I married. Everyone expects it of me, I know.”
“Not exactly. You’re older and a mother now. And of course a widow has more freedom than a young girl.”
Anna shook her head impatiently. “That isn’t what I mean. All of you—you, James, Aunt Lilias in her letters. She’s already matchmaking. You want me to step back into my old place as if nothing had happened.” As if she’d never endured two years with a husband who thought her little better than a whore. As if she’d never marched with the army, faced danger, killed men to save her life and that of the man she loved. As if she had never met Will.
“She only wants you to be happy. That’s what we all want.”
“I know. I couldn’t be more fortunate in my family, and I love you all. But I cannot be the—the butterfly I was before. I’ve seen too much. I’ve done too much.”
“Then what do you want?”
She wanted Will, but she could not have him and would not even allow herself to believe he lived, not after Badajoz.
“Something to fight for,” she said. That was the heart of her restlessness. She’d learned to be a fighter, and she needed a battle.
Lucy considered her, her brown eyes grave. “With your fortune, you have the power to do any amount of good. You could set up a school for soldiers’ orphans, and perhaps to train and place their mothers in suitable situations.”
Anna pictured such an institution finding work for hundreds of Mrs. Lewises and giving their children a good basic education and some kind of trade to follow. “That’s a wonderful idea! I believe I’ll discuss it with James.” Her brother was quietly involved in a number of good works, though he was never as flashy about his philanthropy as he was about his clothing, his horses, or his oratorical flourishes in the House of Lords. “But, Lucy, it’s something I could do with my money, not my life. I’m hardly suited to teaching widows and orphans myself—I’d be nothing but a meddling aristocratic dabbler.” She shook her head. “I wish I could follow the drum again.”
“You do? I thought you were unhappy there.”
“I was unhappy in my marriage. The life suited me.”
“But from all you’ve said, it sounds like such a rough, difficult manner of living.”
Anna fussed with her dusty skirts as she sought words to explain. “It’s not that I enjoy being dirty or hot or hungry, but I miss the variety and adventure of it. I suppose I’m a wanderer at heart.”
“But you love Dunmalcolm so much.”
“I do. And when Sebastian died, I wanted to go straight there and never leave. But now…it’s still my home, but I’d rather have it as the place I can always return to than as the place I’ll always stay.”
Lucy shrugged. “Well, if following the drum again is what you want, it’s easy enough to achieve. Simply marry another officer.”
But it wouldn’t be right. “If I cannot marry Arthur’s father, then I will not marry at all.”
“Then I have no answers for you.”
As Orchard Park came into sight, Anna saw four coaches in front of the main entrance, with footmen bustling to unload baggage from the last two.
“Uncle Robert and Aunt Lilias,” she said, feeling a curious mixture of joy and dismay. But her misgivings evaporated when she stepped down from the carriage into her aunt’s waiting arms.
“Anna, my dearest child.”
Anna blinked back tears. Aunt Lilias was the closest thing to a mother she had ever had. All through the worst days of her marriage, and again on her journey back to England, pregnant and alone, Anna had longed for her aunt’s affection and comfort. “Dear Aunt Lilias.”
Her aunt broke the embrace and spoke with a briskness at odds with her tear-bright eyes. “We mustn’t stand weeping on your brother’s doorstep. Come, greet your uncle, then take me straight to the nursery to meet your dear little Arthur.”
Alert to her aunt’s comforts, Anna persuaded her to take tea and change her traveling dress first. But soon they were together in the nursery, Aunt Lilias with the baby on her lap, Anna hovering over her shoulder. Arthur was at his most charming, delighting them with cooing and a gummy grin in response to the smallest efforts to amuse him.
“What a beautiful boy he is, Anna, and he has the Gordon smile.”
“And the Gordon hair.”
“Indeed. There’s nothing of our family about his eyes, though. Is that color an Arrington trait? I thought Sebastian’s were blue.”
“They were,” Anna said calmly. “I’ve never seen a portrait of my father’s parents, however. Perhaps one of them had light brown eyes.” And perhaps they had indeed.
“Well, wherever he got them, they’re pleasing. He’ll be handsome, like all our men.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“It’s delightful to have children in the castle nursery again. Arthur is just over a year younger than Robin’s son, and I’m sure they’ll be great cronies as they grow up.”
“Or great rivals,” Anna said with a smile.
&nb
sp; “They’ll be just like brothers,” Aunt Lilias said firmly.
“Exactly—great cronies or great rivals.” Arthur had begun to fuss, and Anna stretched her arms for him. “I believe he’s hungry.”
For a few moments they were silent as Anna settled herself in a chair and began feeding Arthur.
“You’ve changed,” Aunt Lilias said at last.
She looked up from her contemplation of her son’s face to find her aunt regarding her gravely. “It’s been three years,” Anna said quietly. “Three eventful years.”
“I know. But I cannot help missing the girl I knew then—just as I missed your childhood self when you began to be a young lady. You’ll understand, as you watch him grow.”
“I think I already do, a little.”
Aunt Lilias nodded. “And now I must come to know you again. You’re so much more serious now.”
“I should hope so! I must’ve been insufferably giddy and frivolous.”
“Never to me. I always thought you merry and delightful.”
“Dear aunt.” Anna smiled at her. “I trust I haven’t entirely forgotten how to be merry, but I’ve seen so much.”
“You must have indeed, following the drum.” She shuddered delicately.
“That wasn’t all of it,” Anna said, resolving to make a partial confession to her aunt. “Sebastian and I were not happy.”
“I suspected it, from your letters and from, er, the manner of his death. I’m very sorry to have it confirmed. My poor Anna!”
“It’s over now. I—I’m sorry he’s dead, but I’m not sorry to be free of him.”
“And yet you’re a devoted mother to his son.”
Anna felt her cheeks heat, and she looked at Arthur, gently tracing the straight eyebrows and high forehead that were so very like Will’s. She would have loved the baby just as well had he been Sebastian’s son—he would’ve still been hers and an innocent. And yet she was glad that it was the man she loved and longed for whom she saw echoed in her son’s face.
“I thought I was barren,” she said when her momentary confusion had passed. “It took so long, and with Great-aunt Sophia and Flora’s troubles…I’m still amazed and delighted that I have him.”
“Perhaps you’ll give him brothers or sisters someday—unless…I know your delivery was difficult, so I hope…”
Her voice trailed off delicately, and Anna shook her head. “The accoucheur assures me there was no essential injury. But I have no desire to marry again.”
“Anna, my child, all men are not alike. I’d like for you to know the happiness I have with your uncle, or that I believe your brother and his wife have found.”
It was dreadful to be compelled to live a lie. She could not marry Will, and to wed another would be a betrayal of her love for him. But she could never explain herself to her aunt. “I know there are good men and happy marriages,” she said. “Yet I still have no desire to make a fresh trial of that state.”
“It would give me great pleasure to have you always at Dunmalcolm.”
“Then you should be glad I wish to remain a widow.”
“I’d be even more glad to know you would be mistress of Dunmalcolm after me.”
“No, aunt! You must stop trying to make a match of Robin and me.”
“But you love Dunmalcolm so.”
“But I do not love Robin, at least not as a wife ought to love a husband. It wouldn’t do, aunt. Believe me, it would not.”
“Many women have married for the sake of an establishment.”
“Undoubtedly. But I have no need to do so, and it would be unkind to marry Robin simply so I could be Countess of Dunmalcolm someday, when I cannot love him as a wife ought.”
Aunt Lilias sighed. “Sometimes I think your father left you too rich. And don’t think I won’t speak of this again.”
Anna smiled. “How many years have you been married to my uncle? Surely you know that the harder you press a Gordon, the more firmly we pull away.”
Her aunt laughed reluctantly. “I cannot deny that. Very well. I’ll leave you in peace, but you cannot deny me the right to hope and pray.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Will and Juana sat together on a bench in the inn yard, watching the sun set over the hills.
“And so you will leave me behind in this strange land,” Juana said. Her English was growing even better now that she was surrounded by people who spoke nothing else.
She didn’t sound too dismayed, so Will raised an eyebrow at her. “You should’ve married me when you had the chance, then.”
“Is the offer no longer open?”
Will couldn’t speak, though he felt his mouth fall open.
Juana burst into laughter. “Will, your face!” She rested a hand on his arm. “Now you understand why I said no.”
“Any man would be lucky to have you for a wife,” he said loyally.
“Unless he still dreams of another.”
“It may be madness,” he said, very low, “but I cannot help thinking—if I can do well for myself, earn enough to live like a gentleman, and if she’s still free…”
“That is madness. But I would rather see you mad, so, than as you were after Badajoz.”
He shrugged his left shoulder, stretching his half arm. “I wasn’t quite sorry I’d lived, but I came near to it.”
“I know.”
“Have I ever thanked you enough, for saving my life?”
“Sí, Will. You gave me a home.” Juana had been installed as the inn’s laundress, since the village woman who had done it before had grown too old for the work. Will’s mother had been dubious about hiring the strange foreign woman her son had brought home, but after the first week she had pronounced Juana hard-working and reliable. Juana and Anita lived in a room just off the kitchen of the family cottage beside the inn. Anita, who now toddled about on wobbly legs, was the pet of Will’s brother Tim’s children.
“What will you do,” Juana asked, “if you do make yourself rich, only to find that she has married another?”
“There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“You could write to her and ask her to wait,” Juana said practically.
Will shook his head. “No. It wouldn’t be quite proper, and—”
Juana sniffed. “You have already done much that is not quite proper with her.”
“All the more reason we should follow the rules from now on if there’s any chance of—of making the madness come true. Besides,” he said, stretching out his legs, “it is madness, after all. I’m far more likely to die of a fever, or to toil my life away and never rise any higher, than to grow rich enough to have any right to claim Anna. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to wait.”
Juana shrugged. “Have it your way.”
“I hope I didn’t break my mother’s heart when I told her I meant to go.”
“No. She is sad, but she told me she expected something of the sort from you.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She said you were always restless, and that you had not changed.”
Will sighed ruefully. “She knows me well.”
“She is your mother.”
“Will you be all right here, once I’m gone?”
“I will miss you, but your family is kind. I like your mother and sisters. And once you have left, everyone will truly believe we are not lovers. I do not want to marry yet, but someday, maybe.” With a smile, she bid him good-night.
Though dusk was falling, Will stayed outside. He had many farewells to make in the next three days before he left for London, where a ship would be waiting at the East India Company docks. So he savored this small time alone to collect his thoughts.
His family had been elated to welcome him home when he’d arrived in England a month before. He’d been delighted to see them, too, and amazed to behold all the nieces and nephews who’d been born in his absence. He’d been less happy to discover how time had changed his parents, how the hale couple in their middle years that he’d
left behind had been replaced by a stooped man and a silver-haired woman who increasingly left the Royal Oak’s management in their elder son’s capable hands.
Will almost chose to stay in England for their sake. His brother Tim had offered him a share in the proceeds of the inn, and Squire Bickley had a farm on his lands that needed a tenant. But both offers seemed too much like charity. Tim gloried in the work of running the inn. He would never willingly yield any part of his duties to his younger brother, but only set aside some portion of its income for his support. And there had been too much pity in the squire’s eyes, too many assurances that he could have nephews or hired men to do the physical labor of the farm.
Will didn’t want charity. He still had a sound mind and one strong arm, and he wanted to earn his way. So a few weeks after he arrived home, he told his family he was going to London to look in on a friend. He had made his way to East India House and asked to see Neil Matheson.
Mr. Matheson, a serious young man, taller and darker than his brother, had read Captain Matheson’s letter and questioned Will closely about his education and service.
“You’ll do,” he’d said in the end. “You aren’t the usual sort of Company servant, and I’m sure the high-in-the-instep sort will look askance, but I’d never turn aside anyone my brother recommends so highly.”
They had determined that Will should sail on the Felix, scheduled to depart the Company’s London docks the first week of September, giving him ample time to say his farewells and get his affairs in order.
And so Will had journeyed home on the mail coach. The night he returned, he’d told his parents of his decision and endured their dismay. Though, now that he thought about it, Juana was right. His mother hadn’t been as shocked as he’d expected and had acted resigned, not heartbroken. He was what he was, and it seemed his family understood him.
He smiled. He still wasn’t used to doing without the arm, and he still cringed from the pitying looks friends and strangers alike gave him. He missed soldiering. But his life hadn’t ended at Badajoz. He looked forward to India and to the faint, mad hope he might see Anna again someday.
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