by Robb, J. D.
Lighting her stub of a candle, Martha considered the bed. Larger than most that she had tried, she could not decide whether to sleep in the middle or on one edge. She decided to try the half closest to the window, made herself comfortable atop the coverlet, settled her head on the pillow, and pulled her own blanket up to her shoulders.
Sleep came quickly even as she realized that the firmness of the mattress was not completely to her liking.
JACK TRESBERE FOLLOWED THE NIGHT PORTER DOWN THE passage. It was just like the major to time his arrival for the middle of the night. “The easiest way to avoid being soaked with tears by my mother,” he’d insisted. The major well knew he would still be soaked with tears but at least he would have a decent night’s sleep first. And in his own bed.
His own bed. Jack could not even imagine what it was like to have your own bed, in your own room, in the house in which you were raised. His life had been army centered from birth.
They reached a door, but instead of opening what Jack assumed was the major’s bedchamber, the night porter turned to him.
“Have you been with the major long, Sergeant?”
Jack could not tell if the question was from curiosity or civility. “Since Badajoz.”
The night porter looked blank and Jack closed his eyes as he explained. “Since April sixth, eighteen twelve.” The date was burned into his heart and mind and soul, a date that was a nightmare memory he would never forget.
“Aha, the battle where the major was promoted.”
So the man did know a little about the earl’s third son.
“Yes.” Jack hoped the terse response would end the conversation.
“You were in the battle where he was wounded most recently?”
“Yes.” He’d stood right next to him, been spattered with his blood.
“The countess will be so happy to know he is home. She refused to believe that he would be healed enough to travel any time before fall. Her physician son said that it’s a wonder the major can even walk.”
“She will see for herself soon enough.” The major did use a cane and would probably always limp, but his brother was wrong. It had not been a miracle that he could walk but a testament to his brother’s dogged determination and one more thing less easily explained.
Jack nodded at the door. “Is this his room?”
Taking the cue, the porter opened the door and stepped back, allowing Jack first entry, which was pointless since the night porter was the one with the candle.
Jack stopped short. “This room is occupied.”
The night porter came in behind him and the candle lit the room enough to show them an empty bed.
“No, sir, it’s not. A ghost, for sure. There are ghosts aplenty in this place. That would be it.”
Jack shrugged even though he did not agree. He’d heard someone, saw some movement in the dark.
Major Alistair Craig came up behind them and all but stumbled into the room, encumbered by two insanely happy dogs determined to play with their long-gone master. It seemed they thought his cane a toy brought just for them.
A manservant followed with a plateful of ham and cheese on a tray along with two mugs.
“They remember me, Sergeant. How can that be? It’s been years. How many years has it been, Jack?” The major laughed as the dogs nudged his legs.
“At least six, sir. You bought your commission just after the Battle of Corunna and that was early in oh-nine.”
“They seem to have aged better than I have, haven’t they?” None of the three answered the major as he bent to scratch the bigger dog at the base of his neck.
The truth was the major looked like hell, Jack thought. Absurdly gaunt, his eyes sunken into his face.
The porter gasped and raised his hand to his own cheek when the major turned into the light.
The major looked up and waved away his shock. “The scar will fade.” He rubbed the red mark on his face. “It’s not a month old. Though I guess I do look more like a prisoner of war left for dead than a conquering hero.”
Ah, Jack thought, and were they not all prisoners of war? Even if none of them had ever been held behind enemy lines. “Major, let’s rid you of that uniform and get you into something more comfortable. Like your bed.”
“Right.” The major hobbled over to the giant canopied piece of furniture and then looked over his shoulder. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?”
“Why, no one, Major,” the night porter assured him. “The countess had it made up when she had word you were coming.” They all looked at the rumpled cover. “Mayhap the dogs came up to see if you had arrived.”
Even as he spoke the smaller dog jumped up onto the cover, circled three times, and settled at the foot of the bed. The bigger dog was sniffing the floor along the edge of the bed and trying to work his too-large frame underneath it.
“Enough of dogs.” Jack scooped up the smaller one, who was still a good thirty pounds, and with his foot urged the bigger dog away from his attempted exploration under the bed. Rousting both dogs out the door, something he knew the major did not have the heart to do, Jack thanked the night porter and the kitchen servant at the same time and closed the door on them all.
“Thank you, Jack. I wish for nothing more than one night in my own bed and then I will be ready for the mixed blessing of a Craig’s Hill homecoming and all the company the dogs want to share. Just one night,” he repeated on a yawn.
Having the man eat the food and ale was no more than a fond thought as Jack helped the major undress and fall into bed without even buttoning his nightshirt or bothering with a nightcap.
The major was asleep that fast and Jack held his hand over the major’s forehead, close, but not touching, and prayed for a serene night’s sleep, and that all the man’s darker dreams would be given to his sergeant. Tresbere felt the frisson that accompanied the healing touch that had been his gift and his burden since he was fifteen.
Certain that the major was sleeping peacefully, Jack stepped back, took his mug and downed the ale in one swallow, placed some of the ham between two pieces of cheese, and called it supper.
Then Jack Tresbere sat in a chair close to the cold fireplace and waited to see who was hiding under the bed.
CHAPTER TWO
Martha wanted to scramble out from under the bed and race from the room. No, no, she thought, trying to calm her panic. My only chance of escaping is to wait until they are both asleep.
Thank goodness the sergeant insisted the dogs leave the room. The small dog did not like women and tended to ignore them, but the bigger dog, the one they called Midge, loved everyone and had been well on his way to calling attention to her. Martha drew a deep breath and let it out as soundlessly as she could. Her heart was still racing but not at the mad, burst-from-her-chest gallop it had broken into when she heard someone at the door.
She’d barely had time to slip from the bed and under it, thinking clearly enough to drag her blanket with her.
Shoes were all she could see from her hiding spot. She had never realized how much shoes could tell you about a man.
The sergeant, the one the major called Jack Tresbere, stood with authority, his feet planted slightly apart. He seemed to occupy more space than the other three men and not because he was bigger than they were, though he probably was, given the size of his shoes.
The major’s boots were well kept but worn and he stood as though using the wall for support, clearly still recovering from a wound as well as exhausted from travel.
The servant from the kitchen was wearing an old broken-down pair of shoes that were too big for his feet. A boy, she thought, probably one of the gardener’s sons, who slept in the kitchen when he could convince his father to allow him away from their crowded cottage.
As for the night porter, his stance was tentative, as though he could not wait to go back to the door and his regular routine.
Everyone knew Pegwell was ill suited to the role of night protector of the great castle but it was a te
stament to the earl’s easy ways that he never considered finding someone more suited to the post. It was also what made it so easy for her to sample beds and chairs and the occasional glass of wine at night. He never wandered from his spot by the front door.
From the way the sergeant sounded, the way he so easily sent the servants and the dogs away, if he was in charge no one would consider wandering the halls much less storming the castle. Martha shivered as she wondered what would happen if he caught her about the house at night. The shiver was fear, she insisted to herself, but a little bit of that shiver settled lower than her belly and left her somewhat distracted.
A snore startled her. Martha pressed her hand to her mouth to hold back a threatened squeak. Pulling herself to the edge of the bed as slowly and quietly as she could, Martha saw that the sergeant was in a chair facing the fireplace, his head back, his eyes closed. At least she hoped his eyes were closed. It was hard to see much at all with the curtains drawn as they were. The candle had guttered its last, and even with eyes adjusted to the dark it was difficult to make out any detail.
As the major gave out another snore, Martha prayed to the God who did not seem inclined to listen, a prayer for a successful end to this disaster, and then pulled herself out from under the bed.
With her eyes glued to the sergeant she stood up and tiptoed across the room. She counted her steps, seven in all, and when she reached for the door allowed herself the slightest hope of success.
With a stroke of genius and immense self-control, Martha waited until the major snored again to turn the latch, the quiet click lost in the snuffling sound of the major’s snoring.
The door was well-oiled. She had done it herself a week ago, just one on her regular list of duties, so she knew it wouldn’t creak. She slipped though the smallest of openings.
Her elation was overwhelmed by terror as a huge arm clasped her around the waist and a hand covered her mouth just as she was about to scream.
He pulled her a few feet down the hall and then whispered, “If you scream and wake the major there will be hell to pay.”
There would be hell to pay in a dozen other ways, not the least of which was losing her position here. As the sergeant loosened his grip she did the only thing she could think of and bit his hand as hard as she could. She felt the skin break. The taste of his blood in her mouth made her feel sick to her stomach.
Martha wanted to tell him, “I’m sorry, really I am,” but instead of saying it aloud she used the breath she gasped to make good her escape. Dashing into one of the unused bedrooms, she used a connecting door that led into another room. The door from this sitting room opened on a different corridor. She leaned against the wall and waited for her breathing to even out. The sergeant could not possibly know the layout of the castle. She was sure she had successfully escaped.
DAMN THE LITTLE WITCH, JACK THOUGHT AS HE SHOOK HIS hand and then glared at the blood welling from the bite marks. He stood stock-still in the passageway. No point in running after her. She obviously knew the house better than he did, and he would look beyond a dolt if he lost his way and had to wait until daylight to ask someone how to find his way back to the major.
No, he was not running after her, but he knew how tall she was, how neatly she fit under his chin, that she had good, strong teeth, and amazingly curly golden hair. He would find the girl with the gold locks, he had no doubt about that. The question was: What would he do with her once he found her?
Wrapping his handkerchief around his embarrassing wound, the sergeant slipped back into the bedchamber and made his way to the dressing room off it. The cot there looked about as comfortable as the camp cots in Portugal. He toed off his boots, stripped down to his small clothes, lay down, and smiled. It might look like a camp cot but the mattress on it soothed his weary body as only down and feathers could. He reached for the blanket he had pulled from under the major’s bed and tucked it in around him. It smelled of oranges and soap, which was a guarantee that despite the comfortable arrangement, a certain mischief maker would haunt his dreams.
MARTHA BARELY SLEPT A WINK AND IT WAS NOT BECAUSE the room she shared with Wanda was stuffy or because her roommate had a disconcerting way of talking aloud in her sleep. Reliving her escape over and over, and the feel of the man’s arms wrapped tight around her, kept her from resting, and she had only just fallen asleep, or at least it felt like that, when the wake-up bell sounded.
Wanda popped out of bed as though forced by a spring. Martha envied her ability to wake quickly. Even on the best of days Martha was much slower.
“Hurry, Martha, you do not want to be late for breakfast or you will be given the worst chores for the day.”
“Yes, yes,” Martha mumbled. They did each other’s stays. Martha had to do Wanda’s stays twice. The two of them hurried down the five flights of steps to the lowest level and the great cavern of a kitchen where the cooks and kitchen staff had been up for hours.
The usual hush prevailed. At the housekeeper’s insistence there was no more than essential conversation until they were all seated for breakfast. It was a peculiarity that Martha appreciated.
Like Mrs. Belweather, Martha needed that first sip of tea, weak as it was, before her ears would work, much less her brain.
They all took their seats, the dogs weaving around them waiting for food to fall. One of them sat on Martha’s feet. She reached down and stroked his head.
Everyone settled and looked to Jenny, who would announce any news of the night. Jenny was the first to work in the morning, to rouse the banked fires to life, to carry water, to prepare the tables for baking, and as such was always privy to what might have happened overnight. It was her one moment as the center of attention and it was to her credit that she never kept them waiting.
“The major is home! He arrived late last night with his sergeant. The night porter says he still looks very ill, must still be recovering from his wounds, and has a nasty scar on his cheek, but is in good spirits nonetheless. He was very tired and went right to sleep despite the fact he was sure that someone had been sleeping in his bed.”
Mrs. Belweather thumped her cup on the table, putting a sudden stop to the outpouring of conversation at such welcome news. “What did you say?”
When Jenny made to repeat it, Mrs. B. waved her to silence. “Martha!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Martha gulped, wondering how the housekeeper knew.
“You were in charge of preparing his room. I chose you because you are so attentive to detail and fast as well. Would you care to explain how you could have left the bed in less than perfect condition?”
Relieved despite the censure, Martha nodded. “It was perfectly ready, Mrs. Belweather. If you will pardon my forwardness, you inspected it yourself.”
Mrs. Belweather sniffed and sipped her tea.
“It could have been one of the dogs, Mrs. B.,” Jenny suggested. “The night porter said that they were all excited about seeing the major and ran up to his room and were underfoot until the sergeant chased them out.”
The housekeeper nodded and took a spoon to her porridge. That gesture always marked the end of conversation.
They all were nearly done with their porridge when the majordomo came out of his office. He did not eat breakfast with them, being too busy with his responsibilities to take the time.
There was a man with him and Martha felt her heart quicken. She tried for a casual glance, then busied herself with toast and the wee bit of butter they were allowed.
“Attention, please,” the majordomo called, a request that was not at all necessary since every one of the twenty pairs of eyes, all except Martha’s, were fixed on the impressive figure next to him.
Martha realized her mistake and looked up to find the man regarding her with close inspection. She could feel her cheeks redden. It took all of her willpower not to look at his bandaged hand.
“This is Sergeant Tresbere. He was with Major Craig in Spain and will continue as his valet until a suitable one is found
. The sergeant tells me that the major is making a good recovery but needs several weeks of peace and quiet before he is ready to resume his duties.”
The sergeant nodded to them without a smile or change of expression.
“The sergeant will be treated as one of the upper servants and take his place at table when the major does not require his help. He will sit at the place reserved for his valet.”
The seat was empty, but the sergeant made no move to take it.
“The sergeant has asked for a tour of the castle. Is that not right, Sergeant?”
“Yes, with an emphasis on the places that the major is most likely to frequent.”
Everyone nodded. Martha liked the sound of his voice. Well spoken, but not presumptuous, as if he’d had an education but was not going to try to impress them with it the way the countess’s lady’s maid did.
“Martha Stepp.”
She gave a jerky nod and stood up as was expected when addressed directly by someone as important as the majordomo. The dog at her feet snuffled his disapproval but did not trip her up.
“You will accompany the sergeant. Show him the ground-floor parlors, the library, the long hall, and the bathing chamber. Show him the location of the countess’s wing. But do not disturb her. Her ladyship’s maid can show him that suite of rooms later.”
The countess’s maid nodded with that supercilious disdain that Martha actively loathed. It distracted her for a moment. Distracted her from the thought of spending any time at all with the sergeant. That could only prove disastrous. She fingered the magic coin, which had once again found its way to the pocket of her apron, and wished with all her heart. Please let me not be found out.
She did not feel the coin warm and as she stood up she thought, This must be what the aristocrats who went to the guillotine felt like.
CHAPTER THREE