Tender Torment

by Meadowes, Alicia

  “Look here,” he said, “if my conduct earlier today offended you, you’ll have to put it down to the fact that I am not used to the ways of the polite world.”

  She lowered her lashes, waiting for something more to be said. Was that supposed to be an apology?

  “Well, now that that is settled…”

  Incredibly, that was it! She was flabbergasted.

  “I do believe it is appropriate at this time to seal our betrothal.” He slid on the bench beside her, and instinctively Marisa jerked backward as he came near, causing him to laugh with scorn.

  “Did you think I was about to kiss you again, my dear? I will if you wish, of course, but I merely planned on presenting you with this.” He dropped a small velvet box onto her lap and when she did not respond immediately, he urged her to open it. “Come, come, my girl, let’s be on with it. You won’t be unhappy when you see it, I’m sure.”

  This was not the way she had pictured this event in her mind. How could he be so cavalier at a time like this? How shabby he was in his approach toward her! Did the man have no sensitivity whatsoever?

  Obediently, she opened the box to view its contents, and her eyes beheld a large, square emerald ring that was surrounded by diamond chipS which glittered brightly no matter which way she tilted the box. Etched within the center of the stone was a crescent, the family symbol, and the rich luster of the gem gave off an almost hypnotic effect as it lay in the box. Marisa had never seen anything so exquisite.

  “It’s beautiful! But I thought…”

  “Thought that all of the estate’s jewels had been sold? No, not entirely. This particular piece happens to be entailed to the estate as are the necklace and earrings which complete the set. This is the traditional betrothal ring. Now it is yours as are the rest of the famous Straeford emeralds.” He spoke in a bored manner, as if he simply wished to be through with the whole matter as quickly as possible.

  “Well, thank you,” Marisa replied with great sarcasm, snapping the box shut and holding it out in front of his startled eyes.

  “What are you doing? I said it was yours.” Straeford was clearly exasperated and harshness crept into his words as he grabbed the box, removed the ring, and held it out to her. “Here! Put this on!” he demanded.

  Reluctantly, she extended her hand to accept the ring. She hated herself as the earl slid the emerald on her finger. It slipped sideways when he released it from his grasp and he swore under his breath.

  “Too large by half, I see. Well, your father can have that remedied easily enough.”

  “But, my lord,” she protested gently, “won’t you be kind enough to have it adjusted, since I will wear it in your name?”

  “My dear woman, I see no good reason why I must be bothered with trifling matters such as having baubles adjusted. After all, it is you who wishes to wear it. And since your father has sought this goal so eagerly for you, I am positive he will be more than delighted to perform this service.”

  Pulling her hand away from his with a sudden jerk she retorted hotly, “Yes, I’m sure that he will take care of this as he has everything else up to this point.”

  The earl threw back his head and gave off a loud, sardonic laugh. “That’s right, dear lady, your father is a managing man, as we have both discovered to our mutual chagrin.” Even Marisa was forced to smile at the irony of it all.

  The Hardings arrived for dinner that evening, and their natural congeniality did much to lighten the atmosphere within the Straeford household. The earl was always pleased to see Edward Harding, but his wife Ann was another matter. A pretty, round-faced girl with plump, apple cheeks and springy brown curls which bounced gingerly about her head, she had an amazing capacity to chatter endlessly in disconnected discourse. She was good-natured, to be sure, and in many ways quite entertaining, especially to Marisa, who found her interesting tidbits of gossip a welcome contrast to the day’s events. Straeford on the other hand found his friend’s wife overbearing and wondered why Harding had not had the courage to muzzle her when it was necessary. To Straeford, Edward’s failure to properly harness his wife represented a flaw in his authority and quite possibly his manliness.

  During dinner, the earl made a civil effort to mask his displeasure at the inane conversation conducted by his guests. When the women finally retired to the drawing room, he breathed an audible sigh of relief. How Harding put up with his Ann’s incessant prattle, he did not know. Yet the poor man wore a lopsided grin on his face every time his eyes rested on his wife. If that were his own wife—he dared not think of the consequences. Lucky for him that Miss Loftus was at least not a scatterbrain.

  “Cigars and politics,” Ann was babbling on as they seated themselves in comfortable chairs. “Men will smoke and drink all night without paying one whit of attention to a woman’s heart. The cads. But don’t worry, ladies, I made Ed promise just one cigar and then they must come to join us.”

  “You haven’t been married very long, have you?” Marisa inquired.

  “Less than a year. You see, I was in India with my father until he retired from the army. That’s where I met Edward and Justin.”

  “Oh, then you must know the earl quite well.”

  “Well, no, not really… I mean, well, no one really knows Justin, now do they? He’s so stand-offish.” She giggled guiltily. “Lud, I suppose that isn’t the right thing to say, is it? I only meant that Straeford is somewhat of a mysterious devil.” She clapped her hand to her mouth as if to grab the words she had just uttered.

  “Ninnyhammer!” Lady Maxwell muttered under her breath.

  “What did you say, Lady Maxwell?” Ann asked unblinkingly.

  “I asked if Harding sails with Justin on the thirteenth.”

  “To Portugal, you mean?”

  “Of course, Portugal. Where else?” Lady Maxwell was beginning to show signs of exasperation similar to her grandson’s.

  “Justin was able to have my husband assigned to his regiment, so he will be going, too.”

  “I’m sure that will be very difficult for you,” Marisa sympathized, “especially with a child due in October.”

  “Yes, it will be, but I have my family, of course. Did you know that the army is allowing a certain number of women to travel with them? Space is being provided for some of the infantrymen’s ‘fancy pieces’ while the officers are…”

  “Saints above!” Lady Maxwell cried and her teacup clattered on her plate. “Spare us any more details, if you please.”

  “Lud, I am sorry, my lady. Did I cause a turn up?” Ann’s cheeks flushed brightly. “Marisa, please excuse my rag manners.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I find this all very amusing as well as informative.”

  “Still, I should not have spoken of such things before an unmarried lady. Tell me, dear, when did you say the date of your wedding would be?”

  Marisa was nonplussed by the sudden shift in conversation, but Lady Maxwell was not.

  “She did not say since the earl will be away all summer, but my grandson is planning to take a leave of absence from his duties during the winter sometime when things are usually quiet.”

  “A winter wedding,” Ann gurgled. “How nice. Will the Park be renovated by then so that you can honeymoon here? I for one think it’s an ideal place, instead of some town teeming with other people. Here you can be alone together.”

  Marisa choked. “Another tea, Mrs. Harding?” Lady Maxwell inquired with exquisite timing just as the men joined them.

  After a substantial breakfast the following morning, the Loftuses prepared to leave for London, and Marisa was relieved when Straeford spoke to her in her father’s presence about pressing military business preventing him from calling on them before his departure for Portugal. He assured them Lady Maxwell would keep him informed about the progress on Straeford Park. And if all went well, he planned to return at the beginning of the new year or sooner. Since he had already insisted on a small wedding, arrangements could easily be made for it to be held s
hortly thereafter.

  “The wedding.” Marisa Loftus heard him say those words over and over again in her mind as the carriage rumbled homeward at the conclusion of the weekend visit. She wondered how long it would be before it became a reality. She wondered about many things associated with this marriage.

  6

  Straeford stood on the rocky, granite coast of Figueira da Foz watching the last of his brigade disembark from the transports. It had been a long stressful day with one of the boats capsizing in the churning surf, bringing death to three of his men. Calling to his aide-decamp, Lt. Drake, the earl told him to report to headquarters that the last of the transports was being unloaded and the brigade was awaiting further instructions. The boy saluted enthusiastically, turned smartly on his heels and strode away. Looking after him, Justin smiled to himself. It was apparent that Drake was looking forward to his first military engagement. As a matter of fact, the earl, too, was yearning for the heat of battle. It was a relief for him to be here in Portugal serving under General Wellesley, a military acquaintance of his from India.

  Straeford squinted as his eyes followed the hot rays of the sun dancing across the ocean in the direction of England. Lady Maxwell would see to things there until he returned to marry the Loftus chit. Reluctantly he had to admit to himself that his grandmother’s choice had been a wise one. The family’s lack of credentials gave him a decided advantage. If the Loftuses had been well connected, they might not have been so willing to concede to some of his demands. Yet he had not won on all counts. If he had, his future brother-in-law, John Loftus, would not be here right now.

  It was evident to him as well as others that the boy was not adapting successfully to military life, and it was causing the earl considerable embarrassment since it was known he was responsible for the young man’s commission. Why Loftus was not eager and willing to learn and assume his duties, as Drake was doing, was incomprehensible to Justin. But there was no time to contemplate the matter now, for Drake had just handed him a message informing him that the army would march in two days for Lisbon and the French.

  It was a long, difficult trek across the land. Even so, under Wellesley’s competent direction the army moved quickly, and within a week and a half they were three days from their ultimate destination. At that point they had reached the little village of Vimeiro where they were to bivouac for the night. The army had barely settled in when scouts informed Wellesley that the French were approaching the encampment. Quickly he assembled his officers and issued orders for the deployment of the troops.

  Straeford’s men were to guard the eastern section of the front. Since the attack was expected to be launched from the south, his brigade would actually be in reserve. Although he would have preferred to be in the thick of battle, the earl did not question his commander’s decision and went about the business of preparing his men.

  Sometime later, riding along the eastern ridge with Harding, he drew rein and raised the spyglass toward something glinting in the distance. An ironic smile twitched across his lips as he held the field glass out to his friend. “Take a look!”

  The major brought the glass to his eye. “Frogs!” he shouted. “And they’re headed our way!”

  Colonel Lord Straeford was already scribbling a note to Wellesley and calling to Drake to see that the general got his message at once. Immediately after sending the young man on his way, Justin began shouting commands at his men and officers. They scarcely had time to obey before a group of French skirmishers swarmed over the hill and attacked. The British met them head-on to defend the summit. Volley after volley of rapid rifle fire smashed into the advancing French infantry columns finally forcing them to give way under the fierce onslaught.

  Again the enemy advanced and once more they were cut down by bayonets and musket shot. Now the British pressed their advantage and drove the French back, breaking through their lines and rushing them.

  In the melée that followed Straeford found himself in the middle of the battling armies. His cries of command were drowned out by the din of rifle fire and bloodcurdling screams coming from the frenzied mass of soldiers.

  Although Straeford held his frightened horse rigidly in check, the animal plunged forward crashing into that of a French colonel. The Frenchman sat tall in the saddle, saber poised. Adroitly parrying his enemy’s oncoming saber thrust, Straeford quickly took the offensive and attacked. Repeatedly their blades clashed and clanged in a death duel, and blood flowed from cuts each inflicted on the other. Equally matched, neither man could gain the advantage until the earl’s mount was hit and collapsed beneath him. Instantly realizing he was going down, Straeford managed to fling himself free and land on one bent leg and knee in the midst of the seething turmoil. Assured of victory, a sneer of satisfaction crossed the French officer’s face as he wielded his saber and bore down on the British colonel. Straeford steeled himself to receive the thrust, but as the officer leaned toward him to strike, he lurched sideways and sprang up to deliver a glancing blow to the left side of the Frenchman’s head. Blood spurted from the wound and covered his face as he reeled in the saddle and fell across the neck of his steed. The crazed animal bolted into the swarming infantry and disappeared.

  Immediately Straeford turned his attention to the continuing fracas only to realize that the French army was fleeing.

  “Colonel!” Lt. Drake slipped from his mount. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I need a horse, Lieutenant,” he said, ignoring Drake’s question.

  “Take mine, sir! I’ll manage to get another.”

  Nodding, Straeford mounted, wheeled his horse about, and shouted orders to the disorganized men who were preparing to follow their retreating adversaries. The colonel and his men waited in vain for the command to pursue the enemy. Finally, it became apparent to Straeford that the battle was over, and that they were not going to follow the French and complete the job they had so successfully begun. The reason why would not be known to him until several hours later when he and some fellow officers shared a drink. Then he would discover that just as the battle began Wellesley had been superseded in command by a general who refused to pursue the French because he feared that the British forces were not strong enough to achieve a total victory.

  During the interim Straeford directed care for the wounded and the dying. Going among his men to encourage and cheer the disheartened, Straeford disregarded his own fatigue and the painful lacerations inflicted upon him by the French colonel until he was satisfied that everything possible was being done for his comrades in arms. He also made a point of checking on John Loftus to assure himself that the boy had come through the battle unscathed. Only then did he submit to the ministrations of the surgeon and permit himself a few hours rest.

  Several weeks later Colonel Lord Straeford sat behind a desk rifling through some papers and running an agitated hand through his wavy black hair. He, along with several other officers, had been assigned the duty of overseeing the evacuation of the French from Portugal.

  “One blunder after another,” he muttered under his breath. First Wellesley had not been permitted to complete his victory over the French, and then the new commandant had gone ahead and signed a treaty with the French allowing them to leave Portugal in British ships. “Insult to injury!” Harding heard him say as he came into the room. “Look at this!” Straeford thrust a sheet of paper into the major’s hand. “Church plate, state carriages … they’re taking half the possessions of Portugal with them!”

  “And to think we were within a three days’ march of Lisbon. I just know we could have defeated them.” Harding commiserated with him. “Wellesley must feel like hell. Rumor has it he’s going home.”

  “It’s no longer just rumor. Sir John Moore has already been assigned his command.”

  “Colonel, sir!” A breathless Drake stuck his bright blond head through the doorway. “I have a message from Admiral Cotton.”

  Straeford waved his young aide-de-camp into the room. After reading the mes
sage from the man responsible for transporting the French out of Portugal, he sat in contemplative silence until he realized both Harding and Drake were watching him. Looking up at them he demanded, “Well, why are the two of you standing around? The sooner we send those Frenchmen packing the better I’ll like it!” With that, he jerked out of his chair and strode out of the building down to the waterfront to take a first-hand look at the progress being made in the evacuation. If everything continued on schedule, all would be completed by late tomorrow, and then the French would be the sole responsibility of the British navy. He took a deep breath of salt air and exhaled deeply as he viewed the activity about him. Unexpectedly his attention was drawn to a French officer whose head was swathed in bandages. Recognition was immediate. So the blow he struck had not been a mortal one. Instinctively Straeford felt his left arm where the Frenchman’s blade had cut him sharply. He had been far luckier than his adversary.

  Sensing Straeford’s gaze, the Frenchman turned his head in his direction, and his good eye bore unblinkingly into the British officer’s face. A swift, easy gait brought him to the earl’s side. “Allow me to introduce myself, monsieur. I am Colonel Dubois.” He bowed slightly. “And you, my lord?”

  “Straeford,” came the terse reply.

  “Ah, I have heard the name.” His small dark eye glittered coldly.

  “You have the advantage,” Straeford replied cynically, unmoved by the hatred he saw revealed in the man’s face.

  “You will know me next time, n’est-ce-pas?”

  Straeford’s eyebrows rose Sardonically. “There’s to be a next time, eh?”