She did, carefully tucking her skirts under her.
Lord Fairchild wove his fingers together, leaving the thumbs free to tap against each other, a quick, irregular beat. His nails were smooth and shaped, his cuffs falling over his wrists just as they ought. He watched his thumbs, perhaps counting time, perhaps choosing words, before he looked at her and spoke. “It is hard to lose a child. And more difficult than you think to get them back.”
“How do you know?” she asked, her voice thick with the effort of controlling it.
“I never met my daughter Sophy until she was ten. She came to me when her mother died. Hated me for years.” He smiled, the way a man does to shrug off pain.
“Does she still?” Anna asked, both curious and afraid of his answer.
“I don’t know. She has more reason now. I didn’t listen when she told me she didn’t want to marry Alistair.”
Anna didn’t know how she bore up under his penetrating eyes, but she kept her face smooth, even as her hands went cold. She was too afraid to ask if he knew the truth about her engagement, so she asked, “Why didn’t you? It would have been easy for you to help her.”
“Yes, if I only had one person to please. I was trying to support my wife. The fact that I neither knew or trusted Bagshot simplified matters.”
“That was a mistake. He can be trusted,” Anna said.
“I hope you’re right. Sophy is dear to me.”
“And your wife?” she asked, before she could stop herself. By all accounts, they despised each other, but he had come from Lady Fairchild’s room just now.
“Have you ever—” he shook his head, then looked down at his hands. The shape of something important lurked in his unspoken words.
“Made a mistake?” Anna filled in. She wanted to know.
He looked at her carefully. “What do you know of mistakes?”
She dropped her eyes. “I’ve made a few.”
She could almost hear his thoughts, fitting together in the silence. Anna pressed her lips together, bracing herself for what he might see. Maybe he’d throw her out, but her instinct—and she was wagering heavily on that—said that he would understand.
“I remember Anthony Morris,” he said at last. “Was he a mistake?”
“One of them.” She swallowed. “I’m trying to do better.”
“So am I,” he said. They passed a smile between them the way weary friends pass around a drink, but then Lord Fairchild asked, “Does reform include Captain Beaumaris?”
“He’s a perfect gentleman,” she said at last. “Much too good for me, but I’m not in a position to refuse his help, not yet. I promise you needn’t worry. I think too much of him to do him any harm.”
“Then you don’t intend to marry him?”
Her cheeks burned, lighting up her neck, even her ears. “I told him myself I wouldn’t serve him such an underhand trick.”
“Even if it was what he wanted?”
Anna banished her blush with a laugh. “He likes me, but I’m not afraid of that. Besides, there is a great difference between what we want and what we can have. You and I both know that. Look at our children.”
“True. I’m in no position to give advice,” he said. “I’ve been the single greatest impediment to my own happiness. Don’t you be.”
“I’ll be careful,” Anna said. Like him, she’d given herself too much pain already. “Thank you for telling me.” She rose and smoothed her skirts, but Lord Fairchild stopped her before she could proceed down the stairs.
“Mrs. Morris?”
“Yes?” Anna turned, her skirts gathered in one hand.
“Careful isn’t what I meant you to be.”
Alistair had been gone long enough that Anna was expecting a letter. Every day she tried not to wait for the arrival of the post, or be disappointed when it brought nothing for her. She’d sent him one already, enclosing the promised lock of hair, but unless one came from him she couldn’t write again. To inundate him with letters that weren’t returned would be embarrassing.
The trouble was, even though she wouldn’t let herself write again, she was always composing imaginary letters, telling him of Lord and Lady Arundel’s departure, Jasper’s new horse (she was no judge of such matters, but Lord Fairchild was sufficiently enthusiastic), and the handsome politician who’d tried to flirt with his aunt. Lady Fairchild hadn’t noticed. It would have been interesting to watch if Lord Fairchild had been there, more interesting certainly than the flagging conversation she’d failed to revive with her own dinner partner.
Anna sighed. One didn’t need to talk when one could simply display an expanse of bosom. The gown she’d worn last evening was an excellent alternative to speech. She’d opted for better coverage today, since it was time to brace herself for another assault from Henry’s grenadiers. The mark below her collar bone from their first battle had finally faded away, and she had no interest in acquiring another.
“Charge!” Henry roared, swiping at her line with his favorite hussar, knocking over the fortifications she’d dutifully erected from his basket of toy bricks.
“Charge!” he said again, scattering bricks across the carpet and into the corners. Henry had picked up the word from Henrietta’s husband, Lord Arundel, who liked playing with his small boys, but couldn’t separate himself from his interest in history. Every game became a re-enactment of some famous battle. Young Laurence had picked up a name or two (he called his hussars after the late General Moore, but pronounced it like he was asking for another biscuit). Henry hadn’t gotten past his one command.
Everything was a charge now, from his flight down the stairs to the swooping of his breakfast spoon. This morning, when Anna rushed down to the hall to stop Henry from swinging his favorite stick, she couldn’t help noticing Lord Fairchild firmly closing his library door. Lady Fairchild hadn’t risen yet, but Anna knew she could look forward to another quarter hour of pointed pronouncements about managing boys and the failings of Henry’s nurse. What Lady Fairchild said privately to her husband (or, more likely, her maid), Anna could only guess. Now that Henrietta was gone and the days were cooler, they spent much more time at the house, where Anna felt like a bigger nuisance each passing day.
“You’ve won again!” Anna exclaimed tiredly, surveying the litter of toys cast about the floor. Served her right for giving Lucy the morning off.
“Did I do it well?” Henry asked, looking up. The earnest question and the hungry look in his eyes stopped her cold.
“Of course!” she said quickly.
“You can do better,” he said, settling back again, frowning at her half-hearted attempt to re-pile the bricks.
“You’re right,” Anna said. “I should do this properly, shouldn’t I? A stronger wall?”
Henry nodded.
“Perhaps a tower here?”
Henry’s eyes sharpened, his face moving closer to the bricks as she stacked them higher.
“This could be a cannon,” Anna said, laying a narrow brick sideways on what might pass, to the highly imaginative, as a parapet.
“That’s good,” Henry said, adding another sideways brick to the battery.
“Who will fire it?” Anna asked, reaching for the scattered soldiers. “This one here?”
It took longer to choose a suitable figure. Henry had no engineers or artillery, but was happy to eventually settle on a rifleman—the subtleties of uniforms, divisions and brigades being beyond him, though at this rate his ignorance wouldn’t last long. Anna had never seen him so intent, or, as they raced around the room on their knees gathering bricks, so content in her company. They piled up the bricks, adding more towers, thicker walls, and plenty of makeshift guns, until none were left and Henry was back on all fours, peering under the bed, hoping to find a couple more strays. Twenty minutes must have passed with the two of them in complete accord, laughing even. Stranger still, Anna felt at ease, buoyant without the ballast of her usual worries. Following him with warm eyes, Anna waited for Henry to return to
the rug. He did, but he didn’t launch immediately into his assault, though the tin hussar was ready in his fist.
“Is it good enough?” Anna asked, for he was scrutinizing the fortress—a formidable objective now—with a critical eye.
Henry glanced from the foot-high walls to the hussar in his hand, and the dozen two-inch soldiers he had left on his side of the rug. “What if he can’t do it, Mama?” he asked.
Reassurance died on her tongue. Henry’s eyes were serious and wide. Guiltily, for she knew she was doing no good to herself or her boy, she lied. “He’ll manage it, love. He’s so brave.”
Equilibrium restored, Henry picked up another soldier. With both hands he swept forward, smashing over the wall, laughing as the bricks cascaded into a heap between them. Anna laughed with him, keeping her smile. “Yes, again,” she said, agreeing with him, privately trying to decide if it was good that Henry believed her so absolutely.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
So much for arriving in good time, Alistair thought. The rate he was going, he’d be lucky to make Burgos before the snows.
He was exaggerating—it was only September—but he was in a foul enough mood to believe his prediction, ever since his guide had wandered ahead and vanished between walls of steep scrub and sliding rock. It was miserable finding his own way through the Sierra Guadaramma, parched and sweating all day, shivering in the dark at night, as brown with dirt as the rabbit he had shot at earlier today—and missed.
At least his worthless guide hadn’t stolen more than an extra flask and a haversack of food. Also, Alistair was not yet out of biscuit, though he’d had to share with his horses since they were camped on a bare slope without any forage. No wood for a fire either, so perhaps the rabbit was no great loss. He’d succumbed to necessity and eaten raw meat before—fed it to his horses too—but he didn’t care for it.
London was a world away. It did no good to long for hot coffee; he might as well wish for a flying carpet. It didn’t help to think of what one couldn’t have, including Anna Morris. Curling up under his cloak, Alistair settled down to wait until it was light enough to ride again, wondering if, when he returned to Madrid, there might be a letter waiting for him.
And what would she have to say? Nothing good, he was sure.
Since you left I’ve been to four routs and fifteen parties. I’ve found myself another husband—a little fat, but kind and complacent. Just the man for me! He lives in Northumberland, so I don’t expect we shall ever meet again. My sincere thanks . . . Best wishes . . . Yours Respectfully, Goodbye.
Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her to write. If he ever got a letter where she signed herself Yours Respectfully, he’d go out and drown himself.
One of the horses flicked a tail and took a step sideways, hooves crunching the flaky stone track that passed for a road. Alistair shifted, but the ground didn’t soften; he had. It would take a few weeks before he toughened up again. His legs ached from days in the saddle, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with the cavalryman’s curse—boils on his buttocks or the insides of his legs. He rolled onto his stomach, setting his head on top of his folded arms.
No good. If he stayed this way, his healing shoulder would be stiff as frozen leather in the morning. Better move back on his side.
Anna would pity him if she could see him now. Oh, maybe she’d tease him for his tanned face and the destruction already begun on his jacket, asking if he was indeed the same fellow who’d squired her about the park. But she’d also take his head and rest it in her lap (if she didn’t think of it, he would ask) and comb her fingers through his salt-crusted hair. Too bad he didn’t approve of ladies straggling along in the tail of the army—not that Anna, who was quite sane, would ever do such a thing. He could conjure her in these mountains with his imagination, and send her back in a twinkling to London, but he could not imagine her jolting after a marching division in the spring wagons, or bringing Henry into danger.
Well, dreams weren’t supposed to resemble the workaday world. They wouldn’t be dreams unless they were substantially better, so he may as well make these idle thoughts worth the name. There’d be Anna, in cool white muslin, a mantilla draped over her shoulders, a secret smile curling her lips and tilting up the corners of her eyes. Henry too—one attempt at verisimilitude couldn’t hurt—his hair lightened to a warm chestnut by the sun, his skin as brown as Alistair’s own. Put them in a clean little house in Lisbon, on a hill that caught cool breezes and had a view of the sea. Put him there too, healthy and whole; the war won, or very nearly. He would carry Henry up the hill on his shoulders, leave oranges on Anna’s pillow and make love to her every afternoon.
Alistair snorted, laughing at himself, wondering when he’d turned into such a sap skull. Shifting his hip off one stone and onto another, he pulled his cloak tighter and stared into the sky.
Three days later than planned, Alistair finally handed over the dispatches to Wellington’s harassed-looking secretary. “Rough going?” the Military Secretary asked.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Alistair said, not wanting to make excuses. He was pleased to have recovered one lost day by dint of some hard riding, but it was nothing to boast about. He was still late.
“Why’s one of Alten’s carrying messages for the Staff?” the Military Secretary asked, looking skeptically at Alistair’s black uniform.
“Just borrowed, my Lord, General Barnard being short a staff officer. I’m to rejoin my brigade unless you have further use for me,” Alistair explained. He hated sieges as much as anyone, but if it was required, he’d take the blow on the chin without complaining.
“No, you’re well out of this one,” the Military Secretary said. “Though perhaps you’d like to stay for today’s show. You’re just in time.”
“Sir?”
“Blowing up the mine today,” explained a nearby adjutant, straightening up from a map held down on the table with a saber and an expensive looking carriage clock. “Planned for yesterday, but of course it wasn’t ready.” He took a sharp glance from his superior and Alistair sent up silent thanks that he hadn’t been ordered to stay. Tempers in this crumbling, low-ceilinged room were as heated as the ones simmering in the trench.
The Military Secretary thumbed through the dispatches then thrust them at the adjutant. “Do something with these, will you?” With a sigh, the fellow took them to a corner and cleared a space in the welter of papers on his desk, relieving Alistair’s mind. Stacks of maps, lists and reports covered every surface, with still more papers bulging from the chests lining the walls. If his dispatches were piled with the rest, who knew if they’d ever be read? Already he could feel sympathetically-induced eye strain. The hard-pressed staff were clearly struggling with the usual issues: delayed ordnance, scanty provisions, flagging morale, unsatisfactory reports from the depots, and an ever increasing butcher’s bill. Wearily, the adjutant leaned forward in his chair, kneading his temples as he started reading.
“Expect you’ll need to visit the commissary,” the Military Secretary said.
“I’m a little hungry,” Alistair admitted. “And I should look after my horses.”
“Not much forage, I’m afraid,” clipped out the Secretary. “Only the regulation allotment.” That would feed one of his horses. He’d have to dip into his own funds to look after the other.
They directed him to the commissary, instructing him to check with the staff when he was finished. “Maybe they’ll have something for you to do.” Messages maybe. In an action like this, there wasn’t much use for cavalry.
It was bad news about the forage allotment; he’d have to see what he could buy in the village they’d taken outside the walled town. Rest would help the horses, but he couldn’t expect both to recover when sharing feed for one. He loped along the lines where the brigades were gathering, trying to ignore the expectant haze thickening around them. Up on the hill, there was movement in the trenches. His pulse quickened.
Catching sight of the dilapidated co
mmissary, Alistair quickened his steps, when the roar of an explosion bashed into him. Staggering, tightening his grip on the leads of his sidling horses, he turned halfway round. The ground rumbled and the black gelding reared, dragging him sideways, so he dropped the mare’s lead, though she was prancing fretfully and whickering. Hauling on the black’s lead, he forced the stamping forefeet to earth, cursing the animal in a steady, low voice.
“Settle down, you devil. Settle down.” Accepting a soothing hand, the horse stilled, though his eyes showed white and rolled fitfully. The mare had taken herself a few paces away, but was behaving herself better. Alistair groped for her trailing leads. If the gelding couldn’t get used to war’s smoke and thunder, it didn’t bode well for either of them.
Horses under control, Alistair gaped at the fortress and the fountain of earth spewing into the air, boulders and masonry rocketing into the sky like weightless nothings until they changed course and came speeding back to earth. Someone started a ragged cheer so he joined in—weakly, because of the icy spiders treading down his spine. Around him, hands patted cartridge pouches and shouldered rifles as preparations accelerated, keeping tempo with his rat-a-tat heart. Recalled to himself by his fidgety mare, Alistair muttered, “Come on, beauty. I’m not taking you into that.” The smoke hadn’t cleared from the breach yet. Alistair looked away, before the maw in the walls started grinding the men running into the rubble.
Intent on the backs of his hands, the flicking ears of his horses, Alistair collected his allotment of oats, dividing it between the mare and the gelding, blunting the whistles, bugle calls, and artillery barrage filling his ears. They must have blasted a reasonable gap. The ground shuddered—just a mumble this time—and Alistair glanced instinctively over his shoulder.
The defenders were back at work, pounding shot from the tower batteries. Twenty minutes in, and both sides were already taking a beating. Snagging his ration of biscuit, Alistair left the horses in the care of another officer’s batman and made his way to the command post where he could watch and wait with the junior staff officers.
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 19