Red, Red Rose

by Marjorie Farrell

  Val couldn’t close the door quickly enough. Before he realized it, he had been carried back to his mother’s cottage and she was singing the same song as he lay in bed, unable to sleep. He had crept down the stairs, meaning to ask her for warm milk, when she stopped playing in the middle of the next verse. He’d sat down on the last step, realizing his mother was crying, very quietly, but as though her heart was indeed broken. “Oh, I thought I could bear it, could live the rest of my life on that last kiss,” she was saying, her voice choked with tears.

  She was crying about his father, Val had thought, as he crept very quietly back to bed. He’d seen the occasional tear in her eye when she spoke of him, but Val had never before realized the depth of her loss. Of course, now he knew it was the Earl of Faringdon’s desertion that had broken her heart.

  His eyes glazed with tears as he remembered. Dear God, he’d disgrace himself if he wasn’t more careful, he thought as he quickly wiped the corner of his eyes.

  Thank God Mrs. Gordon switched to a livelier song and by the time the chorus of “Green Grow the Rashes” came around, Val was able to join in. Then Mrs. Gordon looked over at her husband. “Will you gi’e us another, Ian?”

  Major Gordon stood up and moved over to the mantel so that he was looking directly at his wife as he sang: “O, my luve’s like a red, red, rose….” What would it be like to love a woman like that? wondered Val as he watched the major and his wife. Some of his own sweetest hours had been spent “among the lasses, o,” but friendly and playful lust could hardly compare to the devotion he saw between the major and his wife. Despite the gray in her hair and the lines on her face, Peggy Gordon was obviously still a newly sprung rose to the major, their love as rich and alive as those roses in Val’s mother’s garden.

  Damn, he would not think of his mother, and he managed finally to close the doors that had begun to open inside himself.

  “You and Mrs. Gordon are as excellent partners in music as you are in life,” said James, breaking the silence that reigned when the last strains of music had died away.

  “It was the luckiest day of my life when I met Peggy,” said the major with a broad smile.

  “The Scots are an interesting mix, Major Gordon,” said Charlie. “I know that the Highland regiments are fierce fighters, but your countryman’s songs go right to the heart.”

  “Oh, aye, laddie, we are very different from yer cold Sassenach: wild in war and warm in love.”

  “Now, Ian, don’t start,” warned Mrs. Gordon. “You are insulting our guests!”

  “Ach, well, they can’t help being what they were born,” said the major, a teasing gleam in his eye. “And I confess I am thankful that Wellington is a cool and logical Sassenach, after all.”

  They all laughed at Major Gordon’s seemingly grudging admiration for a man they knew he held in the highest esteem.

  “Shall we have Patrick in, Mama?”

  Mrs. Gordon looked over at Val, who was trying to hide a yawn behind his hand. “I think Lieutenant Aston has had enough, Elspeth. Another evening.”

  Val spluttered an apology. “No, no, bring in Private Ryan, ma’am. It is only the port.”

  “It is the hours you’ve been riding the hills, Lieutenant. No, we will call it an evening, shall we?” Mrs. Gordon said it so graciously and sympathetically that Val did not feel the least embarrassed.

  * * * *

  As he and Charlie and James walked back to the camp, Charlie said, “What a lovely evening. I envy the Gordon family,” he added with a note of wistfulness in his voice. “There is such obvious affection between them all.”

  “Yes,” agreed James. “And I am always amazed that no one has had the sense to fall in love with Elspeth.”

  “Love has nothing to do with sense,” Charlie told him with a grin. “If men and women loved those whom it was reasonable to love…why, the human race would probably have died out by now.”

  James laughed, but Val thought he heard a trace of sadness in his friend’s voice when he replied, “I suppose you are right, Charlie. Good evening to you both,” he added as they came to his tent.

  Val’s quarters were next and he and Charlie stood awkwardly outside for a minute.

  “I’ve read Burns, of course, but I’ve never heard ‘A Man’s a Man’ sung before tonight,” Charlie said.

  “It’s a good song for you to sing, Charlie, for it is who you are: a good, honest man, ‘tho’ e’er so rich,’ ” Val told him, smiling as he changed the verse. “You take everyone as he is…you took me as I was, and for that I was forever grateful. I am glad we ‘brithers be’,” he added, putting his hand on Charlie’s arm.

  “And so am I, Val, so am I.”

  * * * *

  Despite the fact that he was exhausted—or perhaps because of it—Val did not fall asleep immediately. He lay there on his cot while Burns’ melodies played inside his head. What was it about music that touched the heartstrings? Val smiled at the aptness of the word. It was as though the strings of the fortepiano or fiddle or guitar caused a sympathetic stirring in the heart and aroused one’s emotions to a depth that nothing else could. Oh, the drums could stir you and the Highlanders’ damned pipers drive you to a fighting frenzy, but the music tonight made him feel what he hadn’t felt for years.

  Robert Burns believed in the equality of man no matter what his rank. No, the brotherhood of man. The Gordons and Charlie and James also seemed to believe it. Then why was it so hard for him?

  Oh, at some level, of course, he knew he was the equal of any man; twelve years of soldiering had taught him that. He didn’t think he regarded military rank or the lack of it as very important. Nor did he envy Charlie his viscountcy or eventual earldom. If he envied Charlie anything, it was his father. But damn it, he didn’t want Faringdon for a father. He was so tired he was getting it all mixed up in his head. He guessed what he envied was that Charlie had had a father and mother. Parents who were married and presumably faithful. All he had—and it was ironic, wasn’t it?—was the same father, who had been outstandingly unfaithful.

  But as James and Charlie had said, love never was reasonable. He wondered about James. Did that note of sadness in his voice mean that he had loved someone whom it made no “sense” for him to love? He hoped someone, someday soon, would have the sense to love Elspeth Gordon, was his last incoherent thought as he finally drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 12

  Mrs. Casey was aware of the arrival of any new officers and presented herself at the earliest opportunity. She was at Charlie’s tent the next afternoon, waiting for him when he returned from his duties.

  “Good afternoon, my lord. I am Mrs. Mags Casey.”

  “Er, how do you do, Mrs. Casey?” Charlie was a bit taken aback by the woman in front of him, who didn’t have to look up because she was almost the same height.

  “I wanted to bid you welcome to Portugal, sir.”

  “Why, thank you very much,” Charlie replied, wondering just what sort of welcome she had in mind. Surely the camp followers hadn’t started drumming up business in such a direct manner?

  “I was wondering if you have anyone to do laundry for you.”

  Ah, so that was what this was about. Charlie didn’t like rejecting anyone, but the thought of taking this Amazon to bed would have driven him to it. He was happy to be able to employ Mrs. Casey in a different way.

  “Why, no, I haven’t had time, but I must confess my dirty shirts are piling up since I arrived in Portugal!”

  “Just as I supposed, my lord. This is how I work….” Mrs. Casey told him matter-of-factly, and proceeded to explain.

  “That seems all right and tight, Mrs. Casey,” Charlie replied. “I can give you a bundle today. Do you do sheets too?”

  “Yes, indeed, my lord. And if you want a reference, you can just ask Lieutenant Aston. I am sure he would vouch for me.”

  “So you take care of my brother’s laundry too,” said Charlie as he stuffed his shirts into a pillow slip.


  “The lieutenant is your brother? Why, he doesn’t look a bit like you, my lord.”

  “He is my half-brother, Mrs. Casey, and he resembles his mother. Except for his nose,” Charlie added with a smile.

  Mrs. Casey grinned and took the laundry from him. “I’ll have this back to you in a few days, my lord. And if any other woman should approach you, you just tell her I’ve got your needs taken care of. At least as far as clean clothes are concerned,” she added with a smile and a wink.

  “Yes, well, er, thank you, Mrs. Casey,” Charlie stammered as his face got red.

  * * * *

  Later that evening, as she was getting ready to slip into Will Tallman’s cot, Mags told him of her discovery. “If Lieutenant Aston is Lord Holme’s half-brother, then he must be the by-blow of the earl, Will. And him a common soldier all these years!” she added with amazement.

  “He doesn’t like to speak of it, Mags,” Will cautioned her.

  “You knew about him all this time and never told me!”

  “It was not my secret to tell, Mags. Of course, now that his brother’s here, he’ll not keep it such a secret, but there is no need to go gossiping about it.”

  Mrs. Casey left the buttons on her night rail undone and slipped under the covers. “Oh, your feet be cold, Will. And your legs too,” she teased as she trailed her hand up his thigh. “And what’s this between them? A block of ice?”

  “It just needs the touch of your warm hand, Mags,” said Will with a delighted groan as she stroked him.

  “It was a pleasant surprise to find this on such a small man,” murmured Mags.

  “It is not that I am so small. It is just that you are a big woman, Mags.”

  “And don’t you like big women, Will?”

  “You know I do, Mags. Oh, you know I do,” Will reassured her, as he rolled her over on her back and began to push her night rail up. His hands kneaded her buttocks and she drew her legs up to meet him.

  “ ‘Tis only with a woman like you that I’m not afraid I’ll hurt her, being so large and all,” he teased.

  Mags playfully cuffed his ear. “Oh, don’t be so full of yourself, Will!”

  “I want you full of me, Mags,” he whispered as he thrust into her.

  “Oh, yes, Will, yes,” she moaned in delight.

  * * * *

  They both lay there contentedly afterward, Will’s arm around Mags and her head turned into his shoulder. It was one of the things she most liked about him, the way he was affectionate afterward, rather than just rolling over and going to sleep, or worse, sending her back to her own tent like some men might do.

  “You are a fine woman, Mags,” he murmured, stroking her hair.

  “If I am such a fine woman and I satisfy you so well, Will Tallman, then why won’t you make an honest woman of me?”

  “Mags, let’s not start. I am just not a marrying sort of man. I told you that in the beginning, and I haven’t changed. Soldiers shouldn’t ever marry,” he added. “It leaves too many widows.”

  “Do you think I’d mourn you any less if you died tomorrow, Will, just because we aren’t married?”

  “Of course not, Mags,” he said soothingly. “But that just proves my point. Why do we need to get married, if it won’t change our feelings for each other? Now go to sleep, woman.”

  “I’ll give it up for tonight,” Mrs. Casey muttered, “but you’ll be hearing from me again, Will Tallman.”

  “Aye, I’m sure I will, Mags,” Will replied with dry humor.

  He lay awake for a while after she fell asleep. Mags Casey was certainly not the first woman he’d had since he joined the army, but he did wonder if she might be the last. He took all the teasing about the unlikeliness of their coupling in good humor. He was himself rather amused by their difference in size. He’d always preferred small women before Mags, but from the first time he’d seen her, stirring a kettle full of officers’ shirts and joking with the other women, he’d been attracted to her. Now all she had to do was walk into his tent and his cock stood at attention. He’d be happy to spend every night with her, and aye, most of the day too, if it had been possible. But he’d made up his mind a long time ago that he would never marry as long as he was a soldier. He had no objection to having the same woman every night. But if that woman were his wife…well, it would be a worry and a distraction when he went into battle, for one thing. And he needed to feel free, though whenever he tried to explain this to Mags, they quarreled.

  “I just don’t want to be tied down, Mags,” he would say. “Nor to be worried about my wife while I am fighting.”

  “You want to be free for another woman, is that it? Maybe Lucy Brown, who’s been twitching her bottom at you for months?”

  “I don’t want another woman, Mags. I’m very happy to have it be you in my bed each night. I just like knowing I could have one if I wanted to.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Boney’s soldiers, Will Tallman. I’ll kill you myself before I’ll let anyone else have you!” Mags said it so fiercely that Will believed her.

  Well, it would likely be a Frog that got him, for all her threats, for he truly had no desire for another woman. Mags suited him just fine—as long as she was content to stay Mrs. Casey.

  * * * *

  Over the next few weeks, the weather turned warmer, but since the milder temperatures were accompanied by rain, the men were made more uncomfortable. The paths were all mud, the tents were wet through and dripped constantly, and there wasn’t a dry, much less clean, stitch of clothing in the whole encampment.

  Val much preferred dry cold and snow to the incessant icy rain that pelted him as he rode through the hills. His only consolation was that the French had to be as miserable. Probably more so, since they had less food.

  Of course, the British troops were doing more drinking than eating, but Val couldn’t blame them for keeping themselves warm in any way they could. But quarrels broke out on the hour, or so it seemed, and at least twice a day some of them turned violent, which led to the perpetrators being flogged.

  “It is two weeks to Christmas, Lieutenant. If this bloody rain doesn’t stop, the men will be ready to swim back home for their holidays!” said Captain Grant. “I almost wish the damned Frogs would attack; it would give the men something to do!”

  “If it makes you feel any better, the French have been doing their share of fighting and flogging,” Val told his commanding officer with an ironic grin.

  “Our troops’ behavior only confirms Wellington’s view of them. It is hard to convince him that not every British soldier is a drunken brawler.”

  “Perhaps if there was something to promise the men?”

  “Dry clothes? Sun? Plum pudding for Christmas dinner?”

  “If we are lucky, the weather will change and we will all dry out for Christmas. But what if His Lordship planned a holiday party? Or even a ball?” suggested Val.

  “For the enlisted men?”

  “A ball for the officers and for the local dignitaries. Music and feasting for the men. If we started now, we just might be able to round up enough chickens for a stew. Maybe even come up with a piglet or two! I think I can vouch for being more successful at that assignment than smoking out our spy, Captain,” Val added.

  “No luck, then?”

  “Whoever it is, he’s damn good. We know it is an officer. My guess is that it is one with Whig sympathies. But there are a few of them, and none strike me as a traitor.” Val paused. “I would of course prefer it to be someone like Lucas Stanton, but he is constantly spouting Tory rhetoric.”

  “Which makes for a good cover,” said Captain Grant.

  “Indeed,” said Val thoughtfully. “I have considered bringing in reinforcements,” he added with a grin.

  “Oh?”

  “Mrs. Casey does some officers’ laundry. She has regular access to their tents. But I hesitate to bring a woman into this.”

  “I agree with you, Lieutenant. We’ll save Mrs. Casey for a last resort.�
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  Chapter 13

  Lord Wellington was easily persuaded to agree to a Christmas ball in Mafra, for he could see that even his officers’ tempers were severely strained by the weather.

  “And the men? What might we do for them, Colquhoun?”

  “A double ration of rum on the day, sir.”

  Wellington snorted. “The last thing they need!”

  “Not if you cut the rations slightly in the next few weeks with the promise of a Christmas feast at the end. Maybe even offer a few prizes for a marksmanship contest. Something to look forward to and focus their attention, my lord.”

  “And where is this feast to come from, Captain?”

  “I thought I would utilize a few of my exploring officers, my lord. Perhaps send Lieutenant Aston back into the mountains. The guerrilleros are experts at foraging. I don’t think the French will be going anywhere in this weather, my lord,” he added reassuringly.

  “Well, if anyone can find food in this country, it is you,” Wellington told him with an approving nod.

  Nine days before Christmas it stopped raining and in one afternoon the temperature dropped below freezing. Overnight, the ground, which had been ankle-deep in mud, froze into an uneven terrain of wheel ruts and bootprints. The tents were stiff with ice and on every puddle a silver skin of ice had formed.

  Val rode out early in the morning and when he turned to look back at the camp, he smiled. The ice on the tents and the few trees were lit by the winter sun so that everything sparkled. Even the ice in the wheel ruts and puddles were shining. “It is enough to fill a man with holiday spirit,” he told Caesar as they rode into the hills. “Let’s hope we’re successful in finding food.”

  * * * *

  When he reached Sanchez’s stronghold, he was met by Jack Belden.

  “I am afraid you have ridden a long way for nothing, Lieutenant Aston,” the captain told him. “The weather has kept the French quiet and we haven’t a single dispatch!”

  “My mission is far more serious than collecting the odd dispatch,” Val said dramatically.