Susanna Fraser

by A Dream Defiant

  So he’d performed as requested, and a few days later Farlow had drawn him aside. Could he read, write and work sums on paper as well as he could in his head? Yes, sir, Elijah had answered, unable to imagine separating the abilities. He’d been taught by his father, a literate man, who’d learned as a boy from his own father. Elijah’s grandfather had been white—and the owner of his grandmother. He hadn’t loved his slave-born son enough to grant him his freedom, but he’d given him the softer life of a house slave, trained to serve his master with his mind as well as his body.

  Elijah hadn’t told Farlow all that, not at the beginning. But Farlow, after swearing him to secrecy, had explained his strange problem with writing and sums and offered him occasional work as his clerk, whenever his duties called upon him to keep the company’s or regiment’s books.

  Elijah had accepted. He’d liked the young officer and pitied him for his predicament, and he was never averse to an honest chance to earn a little money when the army was so often behind on giving him his pay. A few of their peers in both the officer and enlisted ranks had remarked on so junior an officer hiring a clerk, but as far as either could tell no one suspected the real reason behind it. After all, why should anyone guess that so clever a man as Farlow struggled to write or work sums? They’d even developed a friendship of a sort, as much as they could across the ranks that separated them, and Elijah enjoyed the odd afternoon spent with pen in hand, working over the regimental accounts. He’d never wanted to become the clerk or gentleman’s private secretary his father had intended him to be, but he had a knack for arithmetic that his everyday life gave him few chances to use.

  Tonight, however, he wanted to go to Rose. Still, he sat down at Farlow’s little table, adjusted the candles so he could see his work, and began reviewing Farlow’s notes. Despite their many errors, he knew the regiment well enough to make quick work of entering the names of the fallen into the registry of the dead.

  “I’ll add Sam Merrifield, sir,” he said as he reached the end of the list.

  “Really? When? I thought I had everyone.”

  Elijah blew out a rueful breath. “After the battle, during the looting.”

  “Too bad. I liked him, from what little I knew of him. He seemed a good sort.”

  “He was.”

  “His wife is the English girl, the pretty one who cooks, isn’t she?”

  More like the beauty whose cooking would have done honor to any aristocratic general’s table. “Yes, sir.”

  “What will become of her now?”

  Elijah shrugged and tried to look as little concerned by the matter as possible. “The usual, I suppose. If she wants to marry, she’ll have her pick of the men.”

  “But what if she doesn’t?”

  “She might go home, if she can afford the ship’s fare.”

  Farlow grinned. “After today, there ought to be plenty to be had, if it’s a matter of taking up a collection.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Did you do well, in the looting?”

  Elijah shifted uncomfortably in the face of such a bald question.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the colonel.”

  He allowed himself a small smile. “I have sufficient unto my needs. And yourself, sir?”

  “Not as much as some—Colonel Dryhurst kept me too close till it was almost over, drat his righteous soul. But I’ve a fine mantilla to send my sister.” He shook out the black lace, which he’d draped over his camp chair, and Elijah made suitable sounds of admiration.

  After a moment, he finished enumerating the back pay that had been due to the dead soldiers, capped the bottle of ink and wiped the quill clean. “If that’s all for this evening, sir,” he said, “since I was with Sam Merrifield at the end, I promised Rose I’d tell her of it.”

  “Of course.” Farlow reached in his trunk for a purse, fished out a coin and gave it to Elijah, who took it gravely, though it was a pittance compared to the French silver weighing down his haversack. “Have you any thoughts of courting the fair Rose yourself, or would you prefer a bride of a tawnier hue?”

  Rose Merrifield, his wife? At the mere suggestion of it, all the longing he’d ever felt for her but carefully tamped down because she was already married flared to life. He could run his hands through her tumbling chestnut curls and all down the lush, strong curves of her body. He’d have her to talk to every night, all that clever, practical good sense with the hidden passion and poetry that came out when she talked of food. And to eat her cooking for every dinner—

  He shook his head, firmly. “If I know her at all, sir, she won’t be in the market for another bridegroom, of any hue whatsoever.”

  * * *

  Once Luisa and Jemmy left her alone, after making her promise that she would come to them if she needed anything at all, Rose set the stewpot aside where they couldn’t miss seeing it—holding her breath so she didn’t have to smell it—carefully doused her fire and at last slipped into the blessed privacy of the canvas walls of her tent.

  Even temporary solitude was not to be. Despite having slept through his friend’s removal, Jake stirred and sat up at her entrance.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

  He rubbed his eyes in the semi-darkness. “Where’s Papa? You said he’d be back tonight.”

  If only he’d slept till morning. Maybe by then she would’ve worked out how to tell him. She sat on the pallet of blankets she’d prepared to share with her husband and opened her arms to her son. “Come here, dear heart.”

  Still clutching his blanket, he crossed the short space between them on his sturdy legs and collapsed into her lap. She wrapped the blanket all around him, keeping hold of a corner herself, as if it could soothe both of them.

  “Where’s Papa?” he repeated.

  “You know there was a battle today,” she began.

  His head bobbed in a nod, his soft hair rustling beneath her chin. “Yes. It was noisy, and I smelled the smoke.”

  She swallowed. “In battles, some men die. Today, one of them was Papa.”

  Jake hunched closer to her. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, dear heart. I’m sorry.”

  Jake pondered for a moment. “Then he won’t come back. Dead means you don’t come back. Like Captain Powell.”

  “Yes, like that.” Today’s had been the first pitched battle of the year. Rose reckoned Jake too young to remember last year’s clashes. But Captain Powell had died of a fever just two months ago, and his loss had made an impression—the captain, who’d had sons and daughters of his own at home, had made pets of all the regiment’s children.

  “Oh. Is Papa in heaven, too?”

  “Yes,” Rose said firmly.

  She’d expected Jake to cry, but he only sighed. “I wish he was here,” he said.

  Rose cuddled him tighter, comforting herself as well as him. “So do I.”

  They sat silently. A few more tears slid down Rose’s cheeks. Despite her grief, thoughts of tomorrow still crept in. She had to keep her son safe. He was a quiet, sensitive boy, not as loud and high-spirited as most his age. She knew she’d have offers to marry again, but would any come from men who’d understand Jake and love him like their own son?

  She could always go back to England. The money Luisa had brought her should be enough to pay for their passage and even keep them for some time. But it wouldn’t last forever, and what little family she and Sam had still living couldn’t afford to feed another pair of mouths. The Merrifields had been kind enough to take her in the last time she’d been alone and desperate, but she couldn’t allow herself to become a burden to them.

  What kind of work could she get with a small child in her care? She supposed women in her situation farmed their children out to some family who agreed to look after them for a fee...but how coul
d she trust such people, especially those she could afford on a maid or cook’s wages, to give Jake the care and affection he needed?

  No, marrying again was safer, no matter how much she longed to go home, and no matter how odd and wrong it seemed to go from Sam to another man with no time to mourn in between. She must simply choose wisely.

  Eventually Jake fell asleep again, and she laid him on his pallet. She knew she’d have to repeat her explanations of Sam’s death—young children had a habit of believing anything unpleasant might disappear overnight—and she didn’t look forward to introducing a new stepfather to him. He wouldn’t understand, not at all...or because he was so young and trusting, would he simply accept that it must be so? But Sam’s family wouldn’t, and she dreaded having to write them and tell them that not only was their son and brother dead, but that she’d already married another. None of them had ever traveled more than a few miles from Aspwell Heath. They couldn’t be expected to understand the ways of the army.

  She sighed. She would do her best to explain, and hope they’d manage to forgive her by the time the war was over.

  Georgie Yonge would be the first to propose, she reckoned. He admired her—no, that was too polite a word for it. He lusted after her, and hadn’t much troubled to hide it, either. She hated the way he looked at her, and if she married him, it would mean the end of her friendship with Elijah, for Yonge was one of the outspoken handful of men who hated him. Colonel Dryhurst’s pet nigger, Yonge called him, who ought to be serving an officer or beating a drum instead of giving white men orders. Never mind that Elijah was the best NCO in the company, who ought to be a sergeant by now if ability alone counted for anything.

  She didn’t want to lose the pleasure of his company at her fireside over dinner, and the fun of seeing her good food and a little wine transform him from a careful, correct soldier to a born storyteller with a dry, wicked wit and an irresistible smile. So there was nothing to consider there—she would tell Yonge no.

  Who else would ask? Matt Roberts was a good man, though the notion of him touching her made her shiver in distaste. Surely she could overcome that. It wasn’t his fault, after all, that he looked a little like John Bassett from Aspwell Park, or that his eyes were the same shade of hazel.

  Still, he wasn’t her first choice. Who would be, if she could have her pick of the company? Sam had often asked her that on the eve of battle. They’d lie in each other’s arms in these very same blankets, now so empty without him. “If I fall,” he’d say lightly, as if it was a fitting matter to jest about, “who will you choose for your next?”

  She’d always refused to name anyone, and this time he hadn’t asked. But now that it had come to pass, how would she answer?

  She remembered a conversation with Luisa last year, when the latter had been outspoken in her praise of Lieutenant Farlow’s blond good looks. Rose had protested that she was married. Luisa had smiled knowingly and asked if marriage had blinded Rose’s eyes. She’d laughed and said no, and that she supposed Farlow indeed was the handsomest of the officers, but that she didn’t usually think of them that way.

  “What about the men, then?” unrepentant Luisa had asked.

  Rose should’ve said Sam, or that it would be even worse for her as a married woman to look at men she might have a chance to have, were she free. But somehow what she’d said, without a moment’s thought, was “Elijah Cameron.”

  Luisa had blinked at her in amazement, and Rose had defended her choice. Hadn’t her friend noticed Elijah’s smile, and the way it lit his face and invited you to share in the joke? And unlike many tall, long-limbed men she’d known, he was all grace and no awkwardness. It was a pleasure to watch him walk across the camp, or to toss little Jake and Fernando high in the air and then catch them in his big, sure hands.

  Luisa had only said, “Oh,” but for the next few days Rose had been unwontedly shy and self-conscious around Elijah.

  Now...would he ask her? What if she found a way to hint she wanted him to? Was he what she wanted? Even Luisa had been surprised to hear her call him handsome, and Rose herself had found his size and blackness strange and disturbing in their unfamiliarity when she first met him.

  She shook her head. She was borrowing trouble, and she didn’t have to find the answers tonight. Tired despite herself, she dozed a little, though the sound of the regiment celebrating their victory frightened her as it never had while Sam lived. All that drunken shouting and singing, no more than thirty yards away where the men clustered outside the large tents the unmarried men shared. If any one of them should remember she was here, alone and unprotected... Still, her eyes fell shut.

  She startled awake to the sound of heavy footfalls approaching. Sitting up, she reached into a pack and pulled out a knife. She’d scream if anyone tried anything. Surely Jemmy and Luisa would help her.

  “Rose.”

  The voice was kind and low, just enough above a whisper to make itself heard over the drunken buzz of the camp. She let out a long, ragged breath. “Elijah,” she called in the same tone.

  “Come out, if you will. I’ve something to show you.”

  Chapter Three

  Curious almost despite herself, she crawled out into the night, careful not to awaken Jake. Elijah extended a hand to help her to her feet. He had a strong grip, but he knew how to make his strength gentle. The moonlight was bright enough that she could see the difference in their hands, hers pale and his dark.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. “It feels...safer, on a night like this, not to be alone.” She nodded in the general direction of the main fire.

  “If you wish, I can stay here tonight—outside your tent, of course,” he added hastily. “That way, if anyone tries to come near you...” His voice trailed off.

  “Thank you. I’d be grateful.” No harm could come to her with Elijah Cameron watching over her. Most of the men liked him too well to risk his ire, and even Georgie Yonge and his kind still feared his size.

  She led him to a place a few feet from the tent where the ground was level and smooth. She sat and patted the ground in invitation.

  He sank down beside her, graceful even in that.

  “You said you have something to show me,” she prompted when he didn’t immediately speak.

  He looked around as if checking to ensure no one was watching or listening. “Yes, and to give you, too. Is little Jake asleep?”

  “He is, just now.”

  “Good. I don’t think he needs to see this. He’s too young to be much good at keeping secrets.”

  He unfastened his uniform jacket. Rose drew back in surprise, but he only reached inside, took out some object and pressed it into her hands. It was cool and heavy, a chain of metal and smooth stones.

  She bit back a shocked squeal and gaped at it. A necklace. In the moonlight she couldn’t see the color of the stones, but there were many of them, and larger than any she had ever seen before. “What...?”

  “Sam was killed fighting a French soldier for that. I scared the Frog off, and Sam said I must give it to you. His last words.”

  Her heart pounded almost as hard as it had when she’d realized Sam was dead. “What...are they? I can’t see in this light.”

  “Rubies, I think. They might be garnets. They’re red.”

  Rubies were worth more, but even if they were only garnets, so many of them and so large must still be a small fortune. “Red red, or wine red?”

  “Bright red.”

  “Rubies, then,” she said. She’d learned something of such matters, in her brief stint as a maid at Aspwell Park.

  “Of course, they might not be real,” Elijah pointed out.

  She weighed the necklace from hand to hand. It felt real, important and solid, but... “I don’t know how to find out, either. It’s not as if there’s anyone we could trust to ask.” If s
he took it to someone who would know—an officer rich enough to know his gemstones, or a jeweler in some town large enough to have one—they would only see a treasure in the hands of a common woman who had no rights to such a thing. Even if it was real, ten-to-one they’d tell her the jewels were only glass, all the better to take it off her hands for a pitiful price and have the riches for themselves.

  “Not here, no,” Elijah agreed. “But in London...my brother-in-law owns a pawnshop. I doubt he sees much of this quality, but he’d know, or know how to find out. And I trust him. Well, I’ve only met him once, but my parents like him now.”

  “Now?” she asked, briefly diverted. “They didn’t always?”

  “They thought she could do better. Miriam was the princess, you see, and they thought to see her marry a clerk like Daddy, or a better sort of shopkeeper. Not something as shady as a pawnbroker.”

  “Is he...” Rose began, then trailed off. She’d been about to ask if Miriam’s husband was black. She didn’t know how many black men and women lived in London, only that she had hardly ever seen any as a girl growing up in Bedfordshire. There had been a few passing through on the Great North Road, footmen or grooms glimpsed from a distance at the Red Lion, but she’d never got close enough to do more than gape at them. After her marriage she’d seen black sailors on the transport that brought them to the Peninsula, several more in various regimental bands...and then Elijah himself.