Red, Red Rose

by Marjorie Farrell

  * * * *

  The winter behind the lines might not have been as cold as England’s, but when he looked back on it, Val remembered it as the longest. News arrived steadily but slowly from home and it wasn’t until late February that they discovered the prince had decided to retain Lord Percival’s government. The king, while by no means recovered, had improved slightly and the prince, with uncharacteristic prudence, had decided to keep his father’s ministers. Although many of the Whigs considered it a betrayal, it was generally agreed that the prince had acted wisely.

  In the meantime, Grant, Val, and the other exploring officers continued their reconnaissance forays into Portugal and Spain. More of the French grew sicker every day, but Massena stubbornly held on.

  James left for London in mid-February, which made the winter seem even longer to Val.

  “By the time you return, James, I hope we will be in Spain, or at least on our way,” he told his friend before James set out for Lisbon. “I will miss your companionship,” he added wistfully.

  “And I’ll miss yours. But you will still have Miss Gordon’s company,” he added with a teasing grin. “At least for a while. My sister writes that she has convinced Elspeth to come to London in time for her come-out ball.”

  * * * *

  It may be true that he had Miss Gordon’s company, Val thought after waving James off, but the strain of keeping his deeper feelings leashed only added to his feeling that the winter would go on forever, spring would never come, and both armies would sit and rot in place, and be found, many years later, dry bones, the British behind the lines and the French at Santarem.

  Val was not the only one feeling the almost unbearable tension. Whenever the officers came for dinner and Lieutenant Aston was available to join them, Elspeth found herself longing for a glance, a smile, anything that would indicate that he remembered the feelings that had arisen between them. But his profile was forbidding, and once, when Val turned suddenly to look at her, as though he felt her gaze, she realized he reminded her of nothing so much as a raptor, a gray-eyed hawk.

  But when he talked to Charlie, Elspeth saw the glimpses of warmth and affection that he was keeping so well from her.

  One night after dinner, while the others lingered at the table, Elspeth joined Charlie and Val, who were sitting by the fire.

  “Come, sit down here, Miss Gordon,” said Val, getting out of his chair and settling himself on the small hassock next to it, his knees drawn up.

  “Surely that is too uncomfortable, Lieutenant,” she protested.

  “ ‘Tis a lot more comfortable than the desks in the lower form, eh, Charlie?” he replied, smiling over at his brother.

  “I wouldn’t know, Val. You were the one who had to do Latin with them.” Charlie turned to Elspeth. “He did look funny, Miss Gordon. He couldn’t get his knees under the desk, so he just sat there on one of those little benches….”

  “How long were you at school together?” asked Elspeth.

  “Not very long,” said Val.

  “Not long enough,” scolded Charlie.

  “Now, Charles, I was essentially sent down….”

  “Father could have had that reversed and you know it.”

  Elspeth could tell this was a familiar quarrel. “What did you get in trouble for, Lieutenant Aston?”

  The brothers gave each other a quick glance.

  “Fighting,” Val replied curtly.

  “Beating Lucas Stanton to a bloody pulp,” elaborated Charlie.

  “Well, that explains why there is no love lost between you,” exclaimed Elspeth. “What did you quarrel over?”

  Charlie and Val looked at each other again. “Not something that could be shared with a lady,” replied Val, his gaze shuttered.

  “Lucas could be very…cruel to the younger boys, Miss Gordon. Val came to one boy’s defense.”

  “And for that you were sent down!”

  “It was not a very sporting fight, Miss Gordon.”

  “And you didn’t ask your father to help you?”

  “He went off and took the king’s shilling instead, Miss Gordon,” Charlie said with a wry glance at his brother.

  “But you couldn’t have been more than seventeen!”

  “Sixteen, to be precise,” Charlie informed her while Val was silent. “He might have gone home to Faringdon, of course.”

  “The recruiting sergeant was very persuasive, Miss Gordon,” Val said mildly, pointedly ignoring his younger brother. “I daresay it was likely the song that got me.”

  “The song?”

  “ ‘The King’s Drum.’ The tune reminded me of one my mother used to sing me, about Tom the piper’s son.”

  Elspeth smiled. “Why, you are right. I had never connected them before.”

  “I wanted nothing more than to be over the hills and far away,” confessed Val.

  “Leaving me behind,” said Charlie and Elspeth could hear the sadness underneath.

  “If I am not prying into private matters,” Elspeth asked hesitantly, “I think you were not raised as brothers?”

  “I didn’t know I had a brother until I was eleven,” Charlie said without thinking. Then he blushed and, looking over at Val, said, “I am sorry.”

  “Miss Gordon knows something of my background, Charlie. ‘Tis no matter.”

  “I beg pardon; I should never have asked,” Elspeth apologized.

  “Not at all, Miss Gordon. We are all friends here. Charlie found out he had a brother after his mother died and straightaway went looking for me. Found me too, though I wager he may have had a few moments of doubt as to whether he’d done the right thing, when he saw me, a rough lad in a blacksmith’s apron.”

  “You looked like you could take my head off with one swing of your hammer, Val,” Charlie teased. “I thought you would take it off when I told you who I was.” He reached out and punched Val’s arm and both men laughed.

  It always amused Elspeth that men so often resolved tension-fraught moments with physical contact and mock violence.

  “You certainly did appear the ‘husky, dusky coal-black smith,’ ” teased Charlie.

  They sang the chorus of the old song, smiling at each other and completely forgetting Elspeth’s presence until they came to the end and realized they had been singing about a man pursuing a young woman for her maidenhead.

  “I do beg your pardon, Miss Gordon,” they both said at the same time.

  “Pray do not mention it, gentlemen,” said Elspeth in a “my lady” tone so unlike her that they all burst out laughing.

  “What is so amusing?” asked Lord Stanton as he came in to stand by the fire.

  “Nothing, really, Lucas,” said Charlie.

  “Surely it must have been something,” he pressured.

  “We were merely reminiscing about our school days, Lucas,” replied Val with a seemingly innocent smile.

  “Auld lang syne and all that,” Charlie added.

  “You were there for such a short time, Aston, I am surprised you remember any of it,” Stanton said sarcastically.

  “Ah, but I have such a good memory, my lord,” Val replied provocatively.

  “We were also remembering songs from childhood,” Elspeth quickly interjected. “Are there any you remember, Lord Stanton? Or you, Lord Trowbridge?” she added as the rest joined them.

  “ ‘The Frog he did a wooing go,’ ” sang Charlie, and Elspeth silently blessed him for defusing the tension.

  “ ‘Hey, ho, said Roily.’ ” Her father came over and led them through the whole song as well as a rousing rendition of “The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night.”

  “I had forgotten how enjoyable the old songs are,” said Charlie with a smile after they finished. “Val was reminding us that one of our recruiting songs comes from an old Mother Goose rhyme,” he added and started “Tom the Piper’s Son,” in his appealing tenor. When Elspeth glanced over at Val’s face, she realized she would give anything to have him look at her with the same loving affection in h
is eyes he had for Charlie.

  * * * *

  The end of February finally brought more sun and as its warmth hit the cold ground and half-frozen rivers, they awoke to mist-enshrouded mornings and whole days of fog, which made Val’s reconnaissance missions more difficult.

  One morning in early March he approached the French camp on foot, having left his horse some distance behind due to the heavy fog. He could barely see a foot in front of him and he climbed to his familiar lookout post by feel rather than sight. As he lay on his stomach, waiting for the fog to clear, every sound seemed magnified: the squawks of a crow, the small avalanche of pebbles when he moved the toe of his boot, even a slight rustling in the patch of grass next to him. It took him a few minutes to realize that none of the sounds he was hearing came from the French camp.

  It was by now late morning and there should have been the usual sounds of camp animals and men drilling, but the fog was still so thick that he couldn’t see through it. He lay there for a while, hoping that the sun would finally burn through the mist, but when the visibility didn’t improve, he realized he would have to make his way closer to the French camp.

  He crept down the side of the hill at a snail’s pace, flattened against the rocks, fearing that every time he made a sound a French rifleman would find him. Halfway down, he drew out his field glass and peered through till his eye was aching.

  It was deathly quiet: too quiet. As the mist swirled around him, Val felt he was suspended in time and space. He’d have to go even lower.

  He considered himself a man of some courage, but he felt he was using up a lifetime’s store as he lowered himself backward toward the site of Massena’s camp. When he was finally only a hundred yards from where the sentries would have been posted, he plastered himself against the ground and inched closer.

  Where there should have been tents, there were none. Where campfires had burned, there were blackened pits, and through the mist Val could see nothing else. He lay there for a minute or two and then realized that he was looking at the empty site of the French camp. Massena was finally on the move!

  Or he was totally disoriented and would bump into a sentry who would shoot him on sight, he thought with ironic humor as he stood up slowly and walked into the center of the encampment. There he could see the detritus of a departed army: a few discarded tents, the empty corral, and piles of abandoned clothes and pots and pans. The French were truly gone. It took him a few minutes to determine the direction of their retreat. They were heading north, much as Wellington would have expected them to.

  The fog didn’t lift and Val made an agonizingly slow journey back to the lines. Massena had at least a thirty-mile start. The quicker Wellington received the news and mobilized his army, the sooner he could catch the French.

  Speed was of the essence, but Val had to lead his horse for part of the way back, and when he reached the River Mayor, he realized that if he thought his vision useless before, crossing the river he felt like a blind man. He had to stop and feel the current of the river every few minutes and turn himself in what he thought was the right direction. Halfway across he had to swim and it took all his strength not to get swept downstream. When he finally reached the shore, he collapsed. But he roused himself a few minutes later, not only because of duty but because he knew he would freeze if he stayed there any longer.

  He reached camp after dark and stumbled into Colquhoun Grant’s tent, filthy, wet, and exhausted.

  “My God, Aston, I came in today looking like I’d been put through a mangle, but you look like hell!”

  Val gave him a wan smile and sat down at the edge of his cot. Despite the mess he was making of it, Grant didn’t have the heart to move him. “Just don’t lie down,” he warned with a smile.

  Val was too exhausted to respond to his teasing. “The French are finally on the move, Captain.”

  “Bloody hell! And in this weather. Where are they headed?”

  “North.”

  “Yes, yes, just what we expected. When did they leave?”

  “I would guess they have no more than a day’s lead, sir. But they had thirty miles on us already, of course.”

  Grant grabbed his cloak. “Get yourself a hot bath and an extra ration of rum, Lieutenant. You’ve earned it,” he said as he rushed out.

  Val just sat there in a daze. It felt to him as though the mists he had fought with for hours had somehow rolled into his head. He finally got to his feet and stumbled to his own tent, where he stripped off his wet uniform and crawled under the blankets, falling asleep immediately.

  * * * *

  He was surrounded by fog again, only this time it felt almost like a living energy swirling past him, enveloping him and then parting for just a second or two, as though teasing him and leading him on. When the mist would clear for those brief moments, he would see a vaporish figure in front of him, as though he were walking down the aisle of a mist-shrouded museum and every now and then one statue would appear and then another. One was little Gillingham from the barracks in Kent and another, Private Moore, whom he’d had flogged many years ago. Then, all of a sudden, there was his father. He stopped in front of the earl, trying to get his attention, but then saw that his father was gazing off into the mist with a look of such longing on his face that even Val felt pity. He peered into the shifting vapor, trying to make out what the earl was seeing. Finally, as though someone had exhaled a quiet breath, the fog was blown away and there stood his mother.

  He had never felt such a combination of joy and pain. On her face was a smile so full of love that Val could not bear it. Then he became aware that her smile encompassed both father and son and he was incensed. How could she bear to look at, much less smile upon, the man who had abandoned her?

  As though she could read his thoughts, his mother’s face changed. The smile faded and her eyes filled with tears. “Sarah,” called the earl and the mist came back and she was gone.

  * * * *

  “Don’t go, Mama,” Val awoke just as his dream-self spoke those words.

  He hadn’t dreamed of his mother for years, not since the early days with George Burton. He became conscious as he lay there that his chest was tight with unshed tears.

  Damn his father! He’d driven her away before Val could reach her.

  It took him a few minutes to wake up to everyday reality and when he realized he was in his cot and it was early afternoon, he laughed. Here he was, blaming his father, even in his dreams.

  There was quite a stir going on around him and then he knew that the army was getting ready to move. He draped his blanket around his waist and walked out of his tent. Men were running to and fro, tents were being taken down, and way at the end of camp the baggage carts were being loaded. Val could feel the energy of the chase in the air and when Charlie ran by without even seeing him, he called out a teasing, “View hallo!”

  “Val! Massena’s on the move!”

  “I know,” said Val. “I brought the news.”

  “I’m off to muster my men,” said Charlie. “We have been assigned to General Erskine,” he added with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

  “Oh, God, don’t do a thing he says, Charlie, for it’s bound to be wrong. Just make your own judgments,” replied Val with only partly mock despair as he waved Charlie off.

  The chase was on, and Wellington, the old fox, was on the move, thought Val with a satisfied smile as he went in to pull on a dry uniform. “The fox went out on a chilly night, and he prayed to the moon to give him light, for he’d many a mile to go that night before he reached the town-o, town-o, town-o….” As he sang the old song again, he was reminded of their last evening at the Gordons’ and he wondered whether Elspeth and her mother would be following Major Gordon into Spain.

  Chapter 24

  “I would prefer it if you were safe in Lisbon, Peggy.”

  “And I would prefer being with you, Ian. If only Elspeth weren’t returning to England in a month…. I can’t leave her alone,” replied Mrs. Gord
on. “But this is the first time we have been separated in years, my dear. I couldn’t bear waiting in Lisbon for news. At least if we remain in Pero Negro, I can receive word through the Ordenanza. And this house is quite comfortable.”

  “Oh, Peggy, ma dear,” laughed Major Gordon, “ye are the only earl’s granddaughter who would consider this comfortable! I have asked Private Ryan if he can spare his wife for a few weeks,” he added.

  “That wasn’t necessary, Ian, but I must admit that we will appreciate her company.”

  “Good morning, Mama, Papa,” said Elspeth, who had slept late.

  “Good morning, dear. Your father and I have just been talking and I am happy to say he has agreed to let us stay here.”

  Elspeth gave her father a grateful smile. “I know you wanted us in Lisbon, Papa, but we would both have gone mad awaiting the news of the campaign. This way we are a little closer to the lines of communication.”

  “Mrs. Ryan will be staying with us, Elspeth,” her mother informed her.

  “Why, then, you could go with Papa.”

  Mrs. Gordon’s face brightened for a moment, but she immediately replied, “Of course I can’t leave you alone, Elspeth.”

  “Nonsense, Mama. I will have Mrs. Ryan and it is only for a month.”

  “Your father would be returning on leave to take you to Lisbon, Elspeth, and I can return to the army then.”

  “But you would rather go now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” her mother admitted simply.

  “Then I want you to,” urged Elspeth, placing a hand on her mother’s. “Truly, Papa,” she added, turning to him, “I will feel less concerned for your safety if I know Mama is with you.”

  Major Gordon made one more protest, but then gave in to his daughter’s request. “I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything foolish, Elspeth. You will not be riding out of the valley.”

  “I will busy myself with mending and packing and reading, Papa,” she reassured him.