by Tracy Grant
Children. Caroline's child. Caroline, the reason for his journey into Spain. The French patrol. The fight. The confrontation with Lieutenant Dumont and his own inglorious collapse in the street. That accounted for the dull throbbing in his side. All things considered, it could be a great deal worse. Adam pushed himself up cautiously on one elbow. White-hot pain lanced through him. It was a great deal worse.
"You're awake." A heart-shaped face framed by long fair hair appeared above him. It was like looking at Caroline, only he hadn't known Caroline when she was this young and of course it wasn't Caroline but Emily, her daughter. "Are you all better now?" She spoke Spanish almost without the trace of an accent.
"Very nearly," Adam said, stretching the truth.
"Well now, you look almost human." Hawkins moved into view. "Going to join the rest of us for breakfast, or shall we feed you on the floor?"
"I think I've been waited on enough as it is." Adam reached up and grasped Hawkins's hand. As he got to his feet he felt a wave of dizziness. Hawkins gripped his arm and looked sharply at him. "Hunger," Adam told him. "I haven't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. It affects some people this way."
"Sit down and have a piece of bread, Señor Durward. Fotunately, the French left us some flour. I was able to bake this morning." Caroline's friend Adela Soro set a round crusty loaf on the table. Now that the light was better and his head clearer, Adam saw that she was a handsome woman, strained and worn, like Caroline, but with an underlying vitality. Emily had rejoined the other children, who were pulling the bread apart with eager hands, but there was no sign of Caroline.
"She's gone home to collect her things," Adela said, interpreting his quick glance about the room.
"We stayed here last night," Emily said, looking up at Adam as he seated himself at the table. "Mama said we could because it was our last night in Acquera."
Adam accepted a hunk of bread from Adela. It smelled wonderful and tasted better. "What else did your mother say?" he asked Emily.
"That you're going to take us to Lisbon," Emily said matter-of-factly. She swallowed a mouthful of bread. "I remember Lisbon. There was a park there, with a pond and ducks."
"Is Lisbon very far off?" asked the younger of Adela's two daughters who Adam had heard called Beatriz.
"Very," Emily said.
"Farther even than Palencia?" the boy asked.
"Lots farther," his eldest sister told him. "It's in Portugal." She paused, then added, "There aren't any French there."
Beatriz reached for some more bread, but hesitated and glanced at her mother. Adela nodded and the child broke off a small piece. "Perhaps sometime we can come and visit you," Beatriz said.
"Maybe." Emily appeared pleased at this prospect. "But we won't be in Lisbon. We'll be in England." Her brow furrowed. "I don't remember England."
Adam looked down at her, wondering how old she had been when Caroline took her to Lisbon and why Caroline had gone to Lisbon at all instead of staying comfortably with her husband's family. Five years ago, she had not seemed a woman who would follow her husband to the ends of the earth. And yet, Adam reminded himself, five years ago she had gone to great lengths to protect Jared Rawley.
"Mr. Durward?" Emily plucked at his sleeve. "Are we going to leave soon?"
"As soon as your mother is ready." Adam pushed his chair back and got to his feet, pleased to find that his head did not start spinning. Perhaps hunger really had been responsible for his light-headedness. "I'll see if she needs help carrying her things. Hawkins, when you're finished here, go and see to the horses. Mrs. Rawley and Emily and I will meet you."
"Right you are," said Hawkins. "But if I were you, I'd put your boots on first."
Adam, who had prided himself on having recovered his self-command, realized that he was in his stocking feet. He had a vague memory of asking Hawkins to remove his boots last night. They stood, well brushed, against the wall and his coat was laid out neatly on a nearby chest. His shirt and waistcoat, at least, were buttoned, though they were torn and stained, and his shirt was open at the neck, for his neckcloth was unusable. Adam managed to put the boots on by himself—which ought to go a long way toward convincing Hawkins he was on the mend—shrugged on his coat, and stepped into the street. He doubted Caroline would welcome his help, but the fresh air and exercise would do him good. Besides, he wanted to avoid arguing with Hawkins about whether or not he was fit to travel. And he wanted to see Caroline. She had agreed to come with him and she had told Emily they were leaving, but an irrational part of him still feared she would slip away.
Though the air was cold, the sky was clear. They would at least begin their journey in dry weather. Judging by the position of the sun, Adam thought it was not much past seven, but the village had come to life long since. Children hurried to and from the well with buckets of water, women carried freshly-baked loaves from the village oven, men and older boys headed for the countryside to gather kindling. Shouts and laughter and greetings split the air. Save for the lingering smell of spilled wine and the sight of villagers repairing broken doors and windows, yesterday's raid might never have been. The villagers had learned to put the past behind them and get on with life. Adam wished he could do the same.
He knocked at the door of Caroline's cottage, then stepped inside when there was no answer. It looked exactly as it had yesterday, save that the light was brighter and a neatly tied bundle stood on the table along with a small garment that appeared to be a child's cloak. Caroline must be in the second room. But when Adam knocked at the door there was again no answer. He hesitated, then pushed the door open.
The second room was smaller than the outer chamber, but was equally empty. It was furnished only with two pallets and a three-legged stool with a chipped bowl on top that must have served as a washstand. Whatever personal items it had once contained would be in the bundle. Caroline had finished her packing and then gone—where? Perhaps to say goodbye to some of the villagers?
Adam returned to the street. If Caroline was making farewells, he should leave her in privacy. He paused for a moment and glanced at the stone church at the end of the street, a modest building that dwarfed the surrounding cottages. It looked as if it had stood there for centuries and it must have survived God knew how many wars. Adam found the thought reassuring. He had started to turn back toward Adela's cottage when he caught sight of the graveyard, a small grouping of unadorned sun-bleached stones beside the church. It was empty save for a single slight figure in gray who knelt before one of the stones. Her back was to him, but her fair hair was unmistakable.
Adam felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach which had nothing to do with his wound. Of course. Caroline had wanted to pay a last visit to Jared's grave. He should leave now, at once. If he had not wanted to intrude on her farewells to the villagers, he certainly had no right to intrude on her farewell to her husband. But it was a moment before he could order his thoughts and in that moment Caroline stood, and turned, and saw him.
At this distance he could not read her expression. He had no choice but to stand and wait while she walked toward him. She was wearing a cloak, he saw, of thick, heavy wool which would afford much needed protection on their journey. But the hood was pushed back and the morning sun picked out a few strands of gold in her hair. She paused to allow a young man leading a thin burro with sticks of kindling strapped to its back to pass between them, then crossed the street. "You were looking for me?"
Her voice was cool and detached, but her eyes were luminous and Adam understood why. She had been crying. He saw the patches of damp on her cheeks and the tears still clinging to her lashes. They were further confirmation that her marriage to Jared Rawley had been a real one, not the disaster she had led him to believe it was five years ago. That had been merely one more deception in a night filled with them.
"I thought you might need help with your things," Adam said, feeling singularly stupid. He had blundered and intruded where he had no right to go.
"Thank y
ou, I can manage." Caroline studied his face, very much as Hawkins had earlier in the morning. "You're feeling better?" She sounded a little less remote.
"Abundantly." Adam managed to grin. "I don't remember a great deal of last night, but I think I owe you my thanks."
"On the contrary. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been hurt." Caroline smiled, then turned away, as if made uncomfortable by the shared moment. "I'll get my things," she said, walking toward the cottage.
Adam insisted on carrying the bundle. Caroline took Emily's small cloak, cast a brief glance round the cottage, then turned and walked through the door. She seemed to be forcing herself not to linger over the place that had been her home for the past two months.
"You'll miss it," Adam said, following her into the street.
Caroline looked up at him, as if grateful for his understanding. "Does that seem mad?"
"It's difficult to leave a place you've called home," Adam said, thinking of all the places he had lived in the last nine years and how unlike a home all of them had been.
"Adam." Caroline hesitated, looked away, then looked into his eyes again. "Thank you for coming after me."
It was progress, of a sort. Adam smiled in acknowledgement and they began to walk down the street, keeping a safe distance apart.
They found the children playing a game outside Adela's cotage. Emily was laughing and shrieking, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was about to be separated from her friends, perhaps forever. With some difficulty, Caroline persuaded Emily to hold still long enough to be wrapped in her cloak. Adela came out of the cottage holding the baby, and then, after a flurry of final preparations, the Soro family accompanied Adam, Caroline, and Emily to the square.
Word of Caroline's departure had spread and a number of villagers were gathered in front of the tavern to see her off. Feeling very much an outsider, Adam stood a little apart while Caroline said goodbye to each one in turn. The children resumed their game in the wider space of the square. When she had spoken with the last of the villagers, Caroline called Emily to her side. Emily, shouting happily a few moments before, went suddenly still. Solemn faced, she walked over to her mother, followed by the Soro children. Beatriz ran forward and flung her arms round Caroline's knees. Caroline bent down and kissed her, then embraced the other children. Finally she turned to Adela. "I'll write," she said, hugging her friend. "Father Javier can read the letters to you."
Adela nodded, her eyes bright. Caroline kissed the baby on the forehead, reached for Emily's hand, and turned toward Adam. The villagers looked on in silence. The Soro children, solemn like Emily, clustered about their mother. A chicken that had escaped the French hopped about the periphery of the square. Somewhere in the village a burro brayed and a man shouted. The wind came up, rattling the broken door of the tavern.
Adam met Caroline's gaze. He had won his first objective. She was coming with him. Two hundred miles and a month of travel lay ahead of them. A month of avoiding the French and crossing uncertain terrain and negotiating the equally treacherous ground of their past. It might well prove to be the most difficult month he had ever spent.
"Are you ready to go?" he asked.
Caroline nodded.
Chapter Four
They walked in silence down the winding street. When they had passed the last straggling cottage, Caroline stopped and looked back at the village where she had spent the most important months of her life. Even at this short distance the houses had grown mean and insignificant. The stone church at the top of the hill seemed diminished too, and the graveyard beyond—Who would remember Jared now? There were moments when she could scarce recall his face, moments when she was terrified by how easy it was to forget.
She would forget Acquera too, and the knowledge brought with it an unbearable sense of loss. She had known privations here that would once have been beyond her imagining, but she had also known kindness and friendship. No one cared that she was a Staffordshire squire's daughter or that her husband was the son of an English peer. She was la Inglesa, the ousider, but in the end even those who would not be her friends had given her their respect.
Emily was watching her mother with solemn eyes. "Will we come back?" she said.
Caroline knew it would be easy to make a promise she might never be able to keep, but Emily had learned to live with uncertainty. "I don't know," Caroline said, tightening her hold on her daughter's hand. Adam was waiting for them several yards ahead, and Caroline hurried to close the gap between them.
His face was harsh, but there was sympathy in his eyes and it nearly undid her. Caroline felt tears sting her eyelids and hurried on ahead, unwilling to let him see her face, She might never see Adela again. She would never go to the well for water and listen to the gossip of the women, nor kick open the wooden door of the village oven to insert the tray holding the bread she had shaped herself, nor slip into the back of the church, unwilling to intrude but eager for the comfort of the unfamiliar ritual.
On the other hand, when she reached Lisbon she would have the luxury of a bath. The thought came unbidden and Caroline recognized the pull of the two worlds. She looked at her daugh 7utyter, but Emily's face showed no sign of regret. Emily lived in the present and Caroline would do well to follow her example. There would be time later to mourn what she had left in Acquera.
The path had grown steeper, winding down between slabs of sharp-pointed rocks higher than her head. No trees softened the harsh landscape, only withered bits of grass, still frozen in stiff, defiant spikes. Caroline shivered. She had made this journey three months before with only a peasant guide for company, but she had been foolish then and unaware of the dangers. Now she knew enough to be afraid.
She heard the whinny of a horse and a man's voice making soothing noises. A moment later they reached a rocky plateau, and she saw Hawkins adjusting the saddle of a small, dark brown horse. There were three horses, Caroline saw with relief, and the dark brown one carried a lady's saddle. She would not have to ride with Adam, a possibility that had made her uneasy. She had not yet sorted out her feelings for Adam. Anger warred with concern for his well-being, but anger was uppermost. She saw the same conflict in Adam's face. He was curt to the point of rudeness, but then he must also be in pain. It was much too soon for him to travel.
"I was wondering when you'd turn up." Hawkins glanced sharply at Adam, then turned his attention to the mule that carried their provisions.
"The lady had farewells to make." Adam moved to a large bay horse and stroked its muzzle. "Have they eaten?" he asked Hawkins.
Hawkins nodded. All three horses were tough and lean, but they looked underfed, as did every animal that survived in this bleak country. "Horses are hard to come by, ma'am," he said to Caroline. "We'd hoped to bring another for your husband, if he was fit to ride, but the little brown mare was the best we could do."
"I'm sure she'll do very well, Mr. Hawkins."
"Just plain Hawkins, ma'am, if you don't mind. It's my given name. The last name is Plumb and I don't much care for it."
Emily followed this exchange intently. "Is the mule for me?" she asked, looking up at the large long-legged animal that was shaking its head in seeming annoyance.
Hawkins took Caroline's bundle and stowed it in one of the two panniers attached to the mule's pack-saddle. "I think not," he said, intent on adjusting the weight of the panniers.
"I can ride," Emily insisted. "I can ride a burro."
"I don't doubt it," he said, smiling down at her. "I don't doubt you can ride a mule if it comes to that. But this one's a bad-tempered fellow, and he has just about all he can carry. You'd best ride with one of us."
Emily looked at Adam, who was helping Caroline into the saddle of the brown horse. "With Mama?"
"Of course with me," Caroline said, reaching down for her daughter. She had held Emily before her throughout the long journey from Portugal. Throughout most of it, at least. There had been rough places where she had been forced to relinquish Emily to the g
uide.
"With all respect, ma'am," Hawkins said, "your horse is small. She can ride with me. Or with Mr. Durward when he's fit for it."
"I'm fit for it now, if you'll lift her up." Adam was already on the bay.
Emily looked from one man to the other. "With you," she said, taking Hawkins's hand.
Adam gave a wry smile. "In that case, I'll lead the mule."
Hawkins was a kind man, Caroline decided, a man she could trust to carry her daughter. Younger than she had thought when she saw him in action against the young Frenchman, no older than Adam, tough yet gentle. She saw now that Hawkins walked with a slight limp and wondered how he had come by it.
Adam reached for the mule's bridle while Hawkins tossed Emily on his own horse and mounted quickly behind her.
Caroline took a perverse pleasure in her daughter's choice of riding companion. The feel of Adam's hands when he helped her mount had reminded her all too forcibly of the intimacies which had angered and disturbed her the day before. Her body, starved for a man's touch, persisted in betraying her. Annoyed with her weakness, she picked up the reins and set her horse in motion.
They rode along a narrow, rock-strewn path, Adam in the lead, Hawkins bringing up the rear. The path led down the hill in torturous turns, forcing them to ride slowly. A sheer wall of rock rose on their right, and on their left the land dropped abruptly, allowing no margin for a false step. But the brown horse was a sturdy and sure-footed beast. Caroline relaxed her hold on the reins and allowed the mare to pick her own way.
Behind her Emily was chattering to Hawkins in a mixture of Spanish and English, though the wind rendered the words indistinct. It was a sharp, cold wind, rising abruptly as they rounded a corner, then dying as the path took a turn in the opposite direction. Caroline wrapped her cloak more tightly about her. Cold had been a fact of life in wintertime Acquera, but she had never grown used to it. The air, on the other hand, was pure joy, clear and fresh with a sharp clean smell utterly unlike anything in England. Or in Acquera, where animals and people and cooking fires overlaid it with their heavy scent. The journey would be dangerous, but she would take from it what pleasures she could.