Carla Kelly

by The Wedding Journey

  “What is the matter?” Jesse asked, his lips next to her ear.

  “You would never believe me,” she told him.

  “Oh, I would,” he whispered. “You know, you could turn around and raise your skirt, and we could try this standing up, but I do believe we’d scare the horses.”

  He put his hand over her mouth when she started to laugh, and held it there until Harper gave a low whistle and stepped away from the boulder. “A close one, sir,” he said.

  “I’ll say,” Jesse replied. He winked at Elinore.

  “She hysterical, sir?” Harper asked, his concern undeniable.

  “No, no. Something more mundane than that. Well! Harper, I suggest we get off the road. Find us a place, will you?”

  He did, a ruined stone outbuilding whose only virtue appeared to be a slate roof that looked old enough and strong enough to have kept out Noah’s rain of forty days and forty nights. The other virtue was that it was large enough for the horses, too. Harper grained the animals, then showed Jesse the empty bag.

  “I think we’re about to reach the Douro, Private,” he said.

  Harper moved closer. “D’ye think there’s a bridge left, sir?”

  “Certainly.” Jesse looked at her. “Very well, Elinore,” he said, his embarrassment obvious. “You are right to glare at me, so I’ll say it out loud: I would be surprised if Clausel or Soult were not already in possession of it.”

  “That’s plain enough,” Harper said, and busied himself with the horses.

  She woke early in her husband’s arms. They had burrowed close together in the night, seeking warmth, and he had pushed his face deep into her hair. She thought of her parents then, and their strange hand-to-mouth life following the drum from India, to Canada, to Spain. Mama had told her once how proud she was of Captain Mason in his regimentals when the army marched in review. I will miss the life a little, she thought, but not enough to yearn for it. I have seen enough marching. Jesse says that the French cannot remain long in the Peninsula, and someday the war will end. She sighed, wondering if she could manage even another five minutes of it.

  Jesse stirred when she sighed. “What are you thinking of?” he whispered

  “My father. I suppose he is near Lisbon by now, and the lines.” She raised up on her elbow. “I am not so certain I will know what to say to him, when I see him.”

  “Can you be generous with him?”

  It was a good question, one for which she had no answer. Jesse seemed to require none. He smiled at her, and she was content to lie beside him and wait for the sun to rise. Her eyes were closing again when she took a deep breath, held it, and then slowly let it out. There was no mistaking it: campfires.

  She glanced at her husband, who was deep in sleep again. Holding her breath, she rose to her feet, moving slowly so as not to startle the horses. She sidled up to the window and peered out, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the early dawn. Oh, God, she thought, her hand over her mouth.

  Daylight revealed that they had camped at the edge of an abandoned village, hardly more than a collection of houses. She was no judge of distances, but French soldiers had camped at the other end of the desolate street, close enough for her to smell the fragrance of their breakfast campfire. She sniffed again. They were cooking sausages.

  As she watched, horrified, one of the soldiers rose from his place by the fire and walked toward their ruined cottage. Her tongue seemed too large for her mouth, and she wondered if she could even warn her companions. She pulled herself away from the window, and watched out of the merest corner of it as he stopped, unbuttoned his trousers, and urinated. Unable to look away, she watched as he finished his chore, shook himself, buttoned his trousers, and ambled back to the fire.

  On her hands and knees, she crawled to Jesse, put her hand just over his mouth, and touched his shoulder. He woke immediately. “The French,” she whispered. “They camped for the night just beyond us.”

  Wilkie must have been awake, because he prodded Harper. In a second, the two of them crouched next to her. Jesse lay still where he was. “I smelled a campfire,” she whispered.

  “How many?” Wilkie asked.

  “Ten?” she replied, uncertain.

  “A patrol,” Harper said. Moving quietly for a big man, he went to the window and raised up slowly. “Chasseurs,” he said as he returned to their little group. “I don’t see their horses.”

  No one said anything. Elinore looked from one man to the other, and back to Jesse, who appeared no more than thoughtful. “Do something!” she wanted to shriek, until reason righted itself. If they can be calm, I can be calm, she told herself, even as she started to shake. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  Silently, Jesse took her by the arm and walked her behind the horses. The other two followed as he sat her down in the farthest corner from the door and the window, and wrapped her cloak around her. As the men she had come to know so well sat in front of her, fear was replaced with comfort. They are ready to defend me with their lives, she thought in wonder.

  Jesse spoke first. “Private Wilkie, I have observed that you are somewhat resourceful,” he said. “You have also informed us—and we have seen your handiwork—that you specialize in diversion.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wilkie said promptly. He glanced at Harper. “It’s not a new calling.”

  “I didn’t think so. Have you and Harper been partners for long?”

  “Aye, sir.” Wilkie leaned closer, after looking around, perhaps to make sure the French weren’t listening. “We worked the Strand, Captain: I did the diverting, and ’arry did the plucking.”

  Elinore could see that in spite of their desperate situation, Jesse was hard put not to smile. “Dare I hope that patriotism led you to abandon the criminal life for the army?”

  Harper grinned. “Not a bit of it, Chief! I got caught by a Runner, and the magistrate gave us the choice: Botany Bay or the king’s shilling.”

  “Wilkie, too?”

  “’e didn’t catch me!” Wilkie said, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. He shrugged. “But what’s a good diversion without a cutpurse to follow through?”

  “What, indeed?” Jesse asked. “My dear Wilkie, do you think you could find the chasseurs’ horses and liberate them without causing suspicion?”

  The private thought a moment. “Piece o’cake, sir.”

  “Make it look like the Frogs just tied a poor knot? We can’t have them even suspecting we are about.”

  “I can do it. A little rain would help, though.”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth when rain began to fall. With an expression that Elinore could only call beatific, Wilkie looked upward in surprise.

  “Don’t even say it,” Jesse warned. “I am no expert, but I do not believe the Almighty humors miscreants when He has nothing better to do.”

  Wilkie smiled, obviously unconvinced. “I was saved once in a Methodist street meeting. Maybe it took, Captain. C’mon, ’arry.”

  The two of them crept back to the window. Wilkie positioned himself by the door, and Harper raised up just enough to see out. Both men were perfectly still, almost to the limit of Elinore’s patience, then Harper gave a little grunt, and Wilkie vanished. Elinore blinked. “Jesse, I’m amazed,” she said.

  Her husband nodded. “London must be a safer place, with these two in Spain. A wealthier one, certainly.”

  He moved closer to her. Harper remained by the window, watching, then moved back to them. “We’d better saddle these horses now, really quiet-like,” he said. “No telling how long Wilkie will take, but once the Frenchies leave their camp, we’d better be ready to ride.”

  “You seem pretty confident about Wilkie,” Elinore said.

  Harper sat up a little straighter. “Gor, Mrs. Randall, Wilkie’s an expert.”

  Saddling gave them something to do. Elinore stood by one of the horses, patting his long nose to keep him quiet while Jesse and Harper tightened the cinch, then moved on to the next animal. Sh
e knew the horses were hungry, and prayed they would not catch the scent of other horses, and try to strike up an equine conversation.

  Time passed; she grew drowsy again. She was just nodding off, leaning against Jesse’s shoulder, when he tensed. She opened her eyes to see Harper waving at them. “They’ve left the clearing, Captain.”

  Alert now, Elinore watched the door, but Wilkie appeared almost before she was aware. Not even breathing hard, he went to Jesse. “You call us poor troopers, Captain, but the chasseurs didn’t even have a guard on the horses.” He looked at Harper. “’ow do they plan to conquer the world? I’m sure I don’t know.”

  In a matter of minutes, they led the horses from the cottage, mounted, and struck out across country to avoid even the cow path they had followed. They rode in earnest now, everyone silent, intent, watchful. Wilkie led, scouting the path. When they stopped a few hours later, he rode ahead to the closest promontory. He was even more serious than usual when he returned as the others prepared to mount.

  “What did you see?” Jesse asked.

  “The whole army, sir.” He scratched his head, not happy to be the bearer of evil tidings. “They’re between us and the river. What’s more, there is a little dust to the south and east.” He grimaced. “Not much dust. We’ve had too much rain for that. I think that Clausel and Soult haven’t joined yet.”

  Jesse nodded. “So we have nine thousand troops in front of us, instead of twenty thousand. That relieves my mind, Private.” He looked around. “I propose that we move north and west upstream. Perhaps there is a ford.”

  The rain stopped. They traveled into a raw afternoon, crossing one small bridge over a nameless tributary of the Douro, only to retrace their movement and tug their horses underneath the bank. Silent, shivering in knee-deep water, they listened as a regiment of infantry passed overhead, all moving toward the Douro, seeking Clausel’s army. Darkness had never seemed so welcome, the rain such a blessing.

  Their search for a ford or another bridge took them far from the Salamanca Road. Every slow plop of the horses’ hooves taunted Elinore that they were foolish to dream that their army of four could ever reach the comparative safety of Ciudad Rodrigo’s battered walls. She wanted to rein in her horse and just sit there and cry, except that she refused to be the first to give up.

  The sun was setting as they rode toward the Douro again, far upstream from the Roman bridge where armies had crossed for centuries. A path took them single file down the slippery approach where the river had cut deep into the bank. As they moved so slowly along the trail now, she could only gulp and look away from the river, swollen by the heavy rains of autumn, the water gathering speed as it raced toward the rocky gorge above the Roman bridge.

  “God bless us, will you look at that, Captain?”

  “’pon my word, Harper, is that a ferry?”

  It was. What’s more, the large raft, bobbing on the current, was conveniently tied to a dock. Elinore let out her breath in a sigh of relief and started to edge her horse forward. To her dismay, Jesse grabbed the reins from her hands. “Let Wilkie go first, my love,” he said. “This is just entirely too easy.” He put the reins into her hands again. “I suppose that matrimonial cares have made me a changed man. Next thing you know, I’ll…oh, what is this?”

  She peered closer at the open door where Wilkie stood now, motioning them closer. Another man stood silhouetted there as well, a form so familiar that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m dreaming, she thought, until Jesse slapped her horse and set her in motion.

  “Go on, Elinore,” he told her. “Isn’t it fun to be proved wrong now and then?”

  She didn’t need any further urging. When her tired horse slowed his pace, she lifted her leg out of the saddle and jumped down. With a cry of delight she ran between the dock and the ferryman’s house and threw herself into her father’s arms.

  “Nellie, surely you didn’t think I would abandon you?” Bertie Mason said as he held her close.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She clung to her father. “I didn’t know. How could I, Papa?”

  He tightened his grip. “You ask a very good question, my dear. If I had an adequate answer, probably none of this would have happened.”

  He released her from his embrace, and with an arm around her shoulder, led her into the house. Wilkie grinned at her from his place in front of the fire, where he warmed his hands. In another minute Harper came through the door, followed by her husband.

  “Dare we hope that you have commandeered the ferry?”

  That’s not much of a greeting, Elinore thought. There was no mistaking the wariness in Jesse’s words. She knew of her father’s legendary thick skin—how else could he have skated so nimbly through the army for so many years?—but the words grated like a bone saw. She looked at her father. This is where you usually leave the room, she thought. I’ve never known you to face anything unpleasant a minute longer than necessary.

  He surprised her by looking Jesse in the eye. “I am going to have to prove myself, am I not, sir?” he asked.

  “You are,” Jesse replied, his voice as hard as flint. “Your past actions put your daughter in deep peril, Captain Mason. You’ve secured the ferry?” he asked again.

  Jesse looked at her then, and in the look she saw all his love and longing, and the strain he had been under, trying to see his little army to safety and still preserve that part of himself that demanded a higher level of obedience to medicine. Without complaint, for three weeks he had done things she could never do. The sacrifice of his own peaceful inclinations for a woman of breathtaking insignificance and two nondescript soldiers struck her with the force of a slap.

  She left her father’s side and walked to her husband. “Let me take your coat,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, her hands calm, when she wanted to grab him and never let go. “I can drape it over this chair by the fire. Harper, have we any food? You know how the Chief likes toasted cheese, and no one toasts it better than you.”

  Her calm words seemed to soothe the situation. Bertie managed a light bow. “The ferry is mine. I bought the use of it for a week, and the services of the ferryman. Captain, I am amazed how many of our erstwhile allies are reluctant to take a government chit.”

  There was something in the offhand way he said it that made Jesse smile. “Do you suppose, sir, that the Spanish are as tired of us as we are of them?”

  It was a good start, Elinore reasoned. She looked at her father, and for a change, he did not fail her. “Too true, Captain, too true.” He made an apologetic face. “As much as it pained me, when he would not honor a government chit, I was forced to pay him in pounds sterling.” He smiled at his daughter. “Imagine that, Nell, if you can.”

  She could not. Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide, to Bertie Mason’s obvious amusement. He put his hand to his heart, and she saw a little of the old actor in him. “Do I see a certain disbelief in your eyes—aren’t they lovely, Captain Randall? She takes after me—that I actually have two coins to rub together?”

  “It astounds me, sir,” Jesse replied frankly.

  Mason laughed. “Too much reclamation in the last chapter is the stuff of bad novels, Captain! I fear I am too old for reform of a permanent nature. Forgive me, my dear daughter. Let us bask in this temporary virtue as long as possible, and let us do it over dinner.” He turned toward the fireplace, hesitated a second, then turned around suddenly and took her by the arms again. When he spoke, his voice held no assurance, no polish, no Bertie Mason dash, no pluck. “I did not know that I would ever see you again, Nell,” he said, his voice so filled with genuine emotion that her heart seemed to stop.

  She put her hands on each side of his face and kissed him. “Papa, I was in excellent hands, truly I was.” She sighed and looked at Jesse, only to have to adjust her gaze again when her husband seemed to be struggling, too. She took a deep breath. “Private Harper, do let us see to that cheese. Papa, did you make soup?”

  Wi
lkie located spoons while Harper toasted the cheese. Elinore stood with her back to the fire, lifting her sodden skirts, until her father called them to the table. With a flourish, he sat them down, and gestured for them to begin. No one argued.

  Harper started on his second bowl, and Jesse finally set down his spoon when Bertie Mason cleared his throat. “It was the worst retreat imaginable,” he began. “Two of our darling generals even got lost, if you can imagine such a thing, and there were the French, chewing at our heels. Captain, your hair will curl—well, yours is already curled—when you finally get to read Wellington’s memo to the army.” He shuddered elaborately. “No one knew where anyone was, and I suppose we all assumed that you were safe somewhere.”

  “Assume. I do hate that word now,” Jesse murmured.

  “The regiment was beyond Ciudad Rodrigo before anyone questioned the whereabouts of Number Eight,” Mason said. His lively expression grew somber then. “It probably would have been weeks before we knew, except that Major Bones just had to gloat. I suppose it is the nature of bullies.” He looked down at the table. “We drank together one night. My apologies, Elinore, but I told you I am not a reformed man.”

  She made some motion with her hand, then allowed Jesse to take it and hold it. He kissed her fingers, then put her hand on his leg in a possessive gesture she knew he would never have dreamed of doing two weeks ago.

  “He told me what happened, gloating and laughing. God damn the man!” Mason said, not disguising his bitterness. “‘That surgeon thought he was so clever,’ he told me. ‘He thinks he can have her, and you thought you could make me a laughingstock, Mason, by paying me back like that.’” Mason rose suddenly. “I humiliated him, he said.”