by Carla Kelly
‘Madam, James Rothschild at your service.’
Chapter Nineteen
Polly stared in astonishment at the young man before her, then clapped her hand over her mouth and laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ she said a second later, then turned to Hugh, who seemed to be enjoying her discomfort hugely. ‘Husband, you owe me more than an explanation. I think you owe me a lengthy visit to a modiste when we return to England.’
James Rothschild’s eyes were merry. ‘My dear Madam Junot, I could not resist, so blame me!’ He nodded next to Hugh. ‘You, sir, seem to know my secret. One for the confessional, eh? Does chastity wear a little thin on a Royal Marine, Père Junot?’
Hugh laughed and turned over his crucifix. ‘I attended a secret conference in Lisbon this summer, but never thought to actually meet you. Polly, dear, James Rothschild and his esteemed father in Frankfurt are bankrolling this war through their London office and James’s brother.’
‘We are, indeed,’ Rothschild said. ‘Do your fellows know I have set up a house of business in Paris, right under Napoleon’s nose? No? I hide in plain sight, Madame Junot.’
‘How on earth…?’ Polly began.
‘Trade secrets,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Let me only tell you I travel back and forth between France and Spain, a little bullion going to the Corsican’s generals, but much more to Wellington and his allies.’ His smile was almost cherubic. ‘We have an excellent record of backing winners.’
And that was all he would say about that, turning his attention and all of his charm upon Polly then. ‘My dear madam, although you are charming in that rustic garb, let me give you another dress, so you can travel as my French companion.’ He glanced at the Colonel. ‘Your husband can continue in his role as father confessor.’
A nod and a word to Etchemindy sent one of the smaller Etchemindys dodging puddles out to the carriage, where he retrieved a travelling case and hat box. Rothschild indicated Hugh was to take it.
‘Colonel, assist your wife in changing into something more suitable for this next leg of our journey.’ He peered into Polly’s face with enough intensity to make her blush. ‘Something warm in burgundy, if I have it on this trip. She has such lovely eyes.’
‘I tell her that often, so you needn’t,’ Hugh assured Rothschild, which made Polly accuse him of jealousy a few minutes later, when he was unbuttoning her.
‘You have me there,’ he said. ‘Who could blame me?’ He kissed her neck. ‘He is right; you do have lovely eyes.’
‘Even with spectacles, the bane of my existence?’ she asked, then felt immediately embarrassed because she had no experience in fishing for compliments.
‘Even with spectacles,’ he assured her. ‘I like them, actually.’ He struck a pose, which made her smile, since he was still dressed as a priest. ‘Polly, you know me well enough to know I am not precisely a deep thinker, given to introspection.’
‘I could disagree,’ she interjected.
He bowed. ‘Thank you. With or without spectacles, you’re obviously an intelligent female. Think how brilliant and wise you will make me look!’
She gasped and thumped his chest, then laughed when he caught her up in his arms again. ‘That was the most shallow thing anyone has ever said to me!’ she declared.
‘But it made you laugh and forget our circumstances for a moment, didn’t it?’ he teased, then turned immediately serious, or possibly half-serious; she knew she couldn’t be sure. ‘Brandon, the only problem you might have with spectacles is that all of our babies will want to snatch them off your face. Resign yourself to that.’
‘Hugh,’ she said softly, and it said the world.
There was no burgundy dress among James Rothschild’s catalogue of disguises, so she settled for a dark blue wool travelling dress that screamed Paris-made from every discreet, impeccable seam. It was too big, built for a man’s shape, but Hugh looped a sash twice around her waist and called it good. A pelisse of similar hue and a straw bonnet completed the outfit and turned her from a Basque paisana into a travelling companion for a distinctly average-looking Frenchwoman with impeccable taste.
After hugs for her hosts, Polly let Hugh hand her into the closed carriage and seat her beside Rothschild, who had replaced his wig and bonnet covering his own red hair. He brought out his tatting. ‘My mother taught me,’ he said, expertly throwing the little shuttle. ‘I have made enough lace to trim petticoats for every sister and cousin I have, and I have a lot of them.’ He glanced at Hugh. ‘You’d be amazed how something as domestic as this deflects any number of questions from guards and sentries.’
James Rothschild played a deep game, and he distracted her with it through miles of uncomfortable travel, telling them of smuggling goods in all sorts of ways. ‘My dears, this coach has a false floor,’ he told them. ‘And my petticoats—trimmed with tatting or otherwise—have deep pockets.’
He was only one in a far-reaching network of couriers and spies that spanned continental Europe and spilled into England, where his older brother Nathan had established a branch. ‘Our business is money, so we appreciate the value of enterprise and commerce in a free environment. This war will end eventually, and the Houses of Rothschild will reign supreme in Europe,’ he said, then made a face when the carriage hit a larger-than-usual pothole. ‘Oi vey! Meanwhile, our backsides suffer. My Hebrew ancestors would tell you it is hard to start dynasties.’
They travelled through two French sentry posts, both well guarded with troops, which told her volumes about the ever-present threat of guerilleros. Rothschild, or rather, Madame Felice Sevigny, barely looked up from her tatting, and even handed it to one guard while she searched in her reticule for the safe-conduct pass. His audacity took away Polly’s breath.
Nightfall found them in León, also patrolled by the French. With remarkable aplomb, Madame Sevigny asked for her usual room and added one for the priest. They ate in a private parlor, but not until the last dish was removed and hot water brought up did Rothschild remove his wig and hike up his skirts, to rest his white-stockinged legs and chic half-boots on a settle. Hugh tugged at his priestly skirts and did the same thing, which made Polly roll her eyes and throw up her hands.
She started the night on a pallet in the same room with Rothschild, clad in a nightshirt, who had taken a yarmulke, phylacteries, and blue-fringed shawl from some recess in his portmanteau and was rocking back and forth, deep in prayer. She watched him, touched at his devotion and wondering how much courage it took for him to practise this huge deception on Napoleon. Madam Sevigny, née Rothschild, may have tried to let them think it was all for business, but Polly knew enough of men now to reckon that even vain ones like Hugh were fuelled by higher motives. So am I, she told herself.
When he put away his religious artifacts, Rothschild climbed into bed and told her goodnight. ‘I’m certain if you tap on the next door, there is a priest who would probably do you a bout of no good,’ he teased. She blushed in the gloom, blew him a kiss, and left the room.
Rothschild was right. Their bout of no good calmed her nerves and soothed that part of her, somewhere under her skin, that seemed to hum with tension. ‘This is disconcerting to the hilt, Hugh, darling, but I only feel safe when you are covering me,’ she whispered, blushing as she said it.
‘Happy to oblige, even though it’s my sorry ass winking at the ceiling,’ he said cheerfully, his breathing still ragged. ‘At least I weigh less than when our journey began.’
‘It seems so long ago now,’ she murmured, drowsy. When he left her body, but continued to hold her close, she kissed his arm and pillowed her head on it. ‘How soon will we be at the coast?’
No answer. Her hero slept. He even snored a little.
In two days they arrived at Gijón, where Hugh sighed with relief to see the Bay of Biscay, sparkling in the sun. ‘God, I love the ocean,’ he said.
‘We are less than fifty miles to Santander,’ Rothschild said, putting down his tatting. ‘Here is where I tr
ade haute couture for rough trousers and a sweater, and take a fishing smack to La Rochelle.’
‘You amaze me,’ Polly said.
He shrugged, then tied off the length of tatting, which he handed to Polly. ‘Sew this on a petticoat and think of me.’ Rothschild took out a handkerchief. With a glance at Hugh, he dabbed at her eyes. ‘No tears, Polly! You and your excellent husband will come and see me in Paris when this is over. I never knew a woman to tear up over tatting before.’
The plans changed as soon as Rothschild went on board the fishing boat and spoke to the Captain. After that brief conversation, they were all on board to hear the good news that the British fleet was in no apparent hurry to leave Santander. ‘The Captain says he will take us to the fleet, Colonel,’ Rothschild said. ‘You’ll be in Santander by morning.’
Bundled against wind and rain, they spent the night on the deck of the fishing smack. Polly visited the rail several times to retch her stomach out, while Hugh came to the rail to look for the first sign of the fleet. ‘I’ll feel so much easier when we are on board Popham’s flagship,’ he told her once, when their trips to the railing intersected.
Morning brought more mist, but not enough to disguise the breathtaking sight of Admiral Sir Home Popham’s 100-gun ship of the line, and the frigates and smaller ships, a bomb kedge among them, hovering close by like chicks around a hen.
‘Thank God,’ Hugh said fervently. ‘Polly, we made it.’
They said goodbye to James Rothschild after breakfast, which Polly was wise enough to forgo. After a glance at Hugh, he hugged her and kissed both cheeks, French fashion. ‘Be careful, James,’ she told him.
Rothschild looked over her head to Hugh in his priest’s garments and kissed Polly again. ‘Au revoir, fair lady. We’ll meet again in Paris. Shalom.’ With a wave of his hand, Rothschild returned to his fishing net.
The fishing smack’s jollyboat skimmed across the bay to the largest ship in the fleet. Because they approached the flagship as an unknown quantity, they were met on deck by a whole contingent of Marines, bayonets at the ready and commanded by a Captain of mature years who took one look at Hugh the priest and saluted, to the amusement of nearby seamen.
‘Colonel Junot! We thought you were dead!’
‘A vast understatement, Captain Marten. I do hope my Colonel Commandant in Plymouth has not replaced me yet.’ He glanced at Polly, amused. ‘My love, I am about to revert to my frivolous ways and ask Theodore Marten, whom I have known for years, if he has some more suitable clothing.’
‘I knew you were a man milliner,’ Polly said.
Hugh took her arm and led her closer. ‘Captain Marten, this is my wife, Polly Junot, and she is abusing me because I am a peacock.’
Captain Marten snapped to attention again for her benefit. ‘Sir, I knew right away after that exchange that she was your wife. Who else would treat you that way, sir? Welcome to Admiral Sir Popham’s flagship, ma’am. Colonel, allow me to escort you and your lady to the old man himself.’
To Polly’s amusement, the old man was as astounded as his Captain of Marines to see Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Junot—thinner, looking more righteous than usual, but obviously no worse for wear.
‘’Pon my word, Colonel, we have been scouring the coast for news of you,’ he said, pouring them each a glass of Madeira. ‘And is this Polly Brandon, risen from the dead as well? There is an anxious surgeon’s wife on Oporto who has been pelting me with letters, and an equally anxious frigate captain who should be at Ferrol Station but who is patrolling this coast, looking for his sister-in-law.’
‘It is Oliver,’ Polly said with relief. ‘I have so much to tell him.’
‘And we have much to tell you, Admiral,’ Hugh said. ‘But first, there is a delicate matter that demands your assistance and your discretion. May we speak privately?’
They could, after the Admiral shooed away his secretary and other crew members. Hugh quickly explained their situation and requested a wedding in the Admiral’s great room at the earliest possible convenience. There were no flies on the Admiral; he summoned his chaplain immediately while Hugh procured himself some clothing from slops—nothing fancier than dark trousers and another black-and-white checked shirt. ‘I have my limits, Polly,’ he told her, as he patted his gorget, which now lay on the outside of his shirt. ‘I won’t be married in priest’s clothing.’
‘I still look better than you do,’ she teased.
‘You always will, my love,’ he told her.
I believe him, she thought, a little surprised at herself, considering what a splendid man Hugh Junot was. I am the most beautiful woman who ever lived, she thought, watching her husband—in fact, if not by law yet. ‘We have been through more than most, my love,’ she said, her voice low, but not low enough that Admiral Popham did not hear, and then turn away, muttering about something in his eye, and complaining that his steward hadn’t a clue about dusting his quarters.
They waited while Popham demanded one of his Midshipmen to run up the numbered flags that would summon the Captain of the Tangier to the flagship immediately. Then they waited a little longer for Captain Oliver Worthy—anxious at the summons and frowning—to gasp and throw open his arms to embrace his sister-in-law, as soon as he came into the great cabin.
‘We needed another witness, Worthy. I thought this was one way to get a lick of work out of you and then send the Tangier back to Ferrol Station,’ Popham said gruffly. He nodded to his chaplain, who stood ready. ‘C’mon, man. This won’t wait. Splice ’um! There’s a war on!’
Admiral Popham dropped his anchor on her when the ink wasn’t yet dry on the marriage lines. ‘Mrs Junot, take a long look at your husband and give him a kiss. I’m sending him with Captain Marten and his Marines to Burgos with siege guns for Wellington.’
‘Then I am coming, too,’ she said, as the blood rushed from her face at the Admiral’s news, so drily delivered. ‘I…I really don’t know what I will do if he is not in my sight.’
‘That is not possible, Mrs Junot,’ the Admiral said, and she felt her heart slide into James Rothschild’s shoes, because she knew he meant it.
‘I’ll take you to Oporto, Polly,’ Oliver said. ‘Duty is duty and no one knows that better than your husband.’
She looked at Hugh, pleaded with him with her eyes without saying a word, and saw in his glance that he felt precisely the same way, even as he agreed with her brother-in-law.
‘I must obey, Brandon,’ he told her.
They all looked at her, each man with some anxiety, and she knew why. She was a woman, weak, missish, and prone to tears. This was their world and she had intruded in it from São Jobim on. No matter how much Hugh Junot loved her, and she knew he did, he was a Marine and the world was at war.
I could cry, she thought, or I could be the woman my sisters have become; the woman I want to be.
‘I know you must obey, Hugh,’ she told him. She turned to Oliver. ‘I would love to sail to Oporto with you, or even go back to Torquay and Nana, but I would like to remain here with the fleet, at least until I know what happens at Burgos.’ She looked at Admiral Popham. ‘I did learn some skills at the satellite hospital, if your surgeon might have need of them. If not, I can stay out of everyone’s way.’
‘It could be that I must remain in Burgos, or follow the guns, if we are successful, and winter in the Pyrenees,’ Hugh said tentatively.
‘Or retreat with Wellington to the lines of Torres Vedras,’ she said. ‘So be it. Just let me know, one way or the other, and I can return to Oporto on a coasting vessel.’
The men looked at each other, and then at the Admiral, whose decision it was. He removed his wig, scratched his scalp, and replaced his wig. ‘Done, madam,’ he said. ‘You may remain with the fleet here in Santander, until we know where this Marine of yours is headed.’ The Admiral chucked her under the chin. ‘I suppose I am a fool for love,’ he told her. ‘Let’s send Oliver packing, and find you a berth somewhere on this big ship, shall we?’
‘Furnish it with a bucket,’ her lover and newly licensed husband said. ‘She’s my darling, but she is no seaman.’
They laughed. Hugh took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m going now to speak with Captain Marten and find out what the duty entails.’
After he left, and before she had a moment to pine, Oliver tucked her arm in his. ‘Polly, if you won’t come aboard the Tangier and let me take you to Oporto, please write a letter to Laura. I will deliver it inside of a week.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I have a lot to say to her.’
It was only a brief letter, because the Tangier had to sail. It came from Polly’s heart, begging Laura’s pardon for doing precisely what she had counselled against, but assuring her sister that she knew her heart, even as she did and as Nana did. ‘“I trust you will come to love my husband as your brother,”’ she wrote, choosing each word with care. ‘“We will be in Plymouth at the Marine barracks, and you are always welcome in our home.”’
She showed it to Oliver, who had been given leave to relax in the Admiral’s quarters and drink the man’s Madeira. He nodded, and patted the banquette beside him.
‘I wish I could take you back to Torquay, but I understand, truly I do,’ he said, then tightened his grip on her shoulder, at the mention of his and Nana’s home. ‘I didn’t tell you the best news. Nana was confined with our son only three weeks ago. Polly, I was there. I was there!’
It was too much. He couldn’t say anything else. They were still sitting close together when Hugh returned to Popham’s great cabin. He sat beside her, his hand on her knee, and looked at them both. ‘Should I be suddenly afraid that my new relatives are emotional southerners?’ he asked, his Scots accent never more pronounced. ‘Oliver, does it take official wedding vows to bring out the fearful truth?’