This week I have reissued The Reluctant Debutante as a second edition. I’ve been wanting to do this for ages but hesitated because I didn’t want to confuse my established readers who may already have bought the original version of the book. I’ve now realised that my readers are really smart and I don’t need to worry about them.

When I began my career as a writer back in 2017, the third book I published was a Regency romance called The Reluctant Debutante. I had been writing as a hobby for many years but was fairly clueless about the world of independent publishing. The Reluctant Debutante was part of a practice run before I launched Paul van Daan, in the first four books of the Peninsular War Saga onto an unsuspecting world.

There were several things I would have done differently with this book. To begin with, it would never have been called the Reluctant Debutante. It didn’t occur to me to do a thorough online search for my chosen title. It seemed like a good title and indeed it was; so much so that two previous books and a film had used it before. The other thing I would have done was searched for a good editor. I had a proof reader for the early books although not a particularly good one but I had yet to discover the huge difference an editor can make.

The Reluctant Debutante was my first attempt at a traditional Regency romance. I grew up with a love of Georgette Heyer, Jane Austen and Jane Aiken Hodge and I always wanted to try my hand at this particular genre. It was published as a standalone novel. More importantly, it was written and published before any of the Peninsular War Saga or Manxman books.

The two main characters, Giles and Cordelia, were written as a fairly typical romantic hero and heroine and the book featured many of the traditional tropes of the genre. It did very well; in fact for about two years it was consistently my bestselling book. I think that was proof of the enduring popularity of the Regency genre. It wasn’t my favourite of my books however and there were always things I thought I could do better as I gained more experience as a writer and a better knowledge of the period.

Over the years I revisited it occasionally. I made small edits and tweaked sections I thought needed improving. I gave both my Regencies new covers along the same lines as my other books. Then, as the Peninsular War Saga began to take off, I had the idea of linking it to my first Regency. The Earl of Rockcliffe, after all, was described as a Waterloo veteran and a former intelligence officer. Why not incorporate a younger version of him into the main books?

Those who have read both series and my short stories will know that this went very well. The Honourable Giles Fenwick made brief appearances in several books and a ghost story, but he fully came into his own in the second Manxman book where he joined my Royal Navy characters and the second battalion of the 110^th during the disastrous Walcheren campaign. Since then he has become one of the most important characters in the Peninsular War Saga. I love writing about Giles because he’s one of the characters who has really grown during the books. Reviews, messages and online chat suggest that he’s immensely popular with readers.

Moving towards the Waterloo campaign, I spoke to my editor about The Reluctant Debutante. She hadn’t been my editor during those early days and, knowing the huge difference she has made to the quality of the later books, we’ve agreed that, over time, she is going to work her way through the early books again. I thought it might be a good time to give Giles and Cordelia a bit of a tidy up and she agreed. As always, she read the book through before starting to edit, then came back with an interesting observation.

“It’s a really nice book. A good Regency romance. The only trouble is with the Earl. Perfectly good bloke. But he’s not Giles.”

Reading it through again I realised she was right. The Earl of Rockcliffe looked like Giles but didn’t sound like him. At first I was baffled but then it occurred to me that this made perfect sense. In 2017 when I wrote this book, Giles – my Giles – didn’t yet exist.

He does now and The Reluctant Debutante is the better for it. I’ve changed nothing about the plot and Cordelia is very much the same. The Earl of Rockcliffe follows the same story arc. His reactions to things are just a little different in places. This is the Giles of the Peninsular War, Walcheren, Alexandria and Waterloo. This Giles is a man I recognise.

The changes are not huge but they’re significant enough for me to designate this a second edition of The Reluctant Debutante. The book still falls squarely into the Regency romance genre but I think it will have now more meaning for readers of my other series. I hope those of you who decide to give it a try will enjoy it.

As regular readers will be aware, I like to include one of my free bonus short stories at the end of each book. This one is a new story, written to celebrate the second edition of The Reluctant Debutante. It will also be available on my website and my Substack page free of charge.

To to ensure that those readers who already bought a copy of the book can try the new edition without charge, I’ve arranged a free promotion of the Kindle book for five days between 29 May and 2 June 2026. If you already have the book on your Kindle you should be able to remove it and then download the new version. If you have trouble with this, please contact Amazon who will be able to help you. If you contact me, all I’ll be able to do is sympathise.

I’m currently working on This Indispensable Squadron, book four of the Manxman series. There will also be a third volume of the collected short stories coming soon and once she’s finished with that, my poor editor is moving on to the other Regency romance, A Regrettable Reputation to work her magic on Nicholas and Camilla.

After that, it’s back to France with the Light Division.

It is 1818.

The bloody battle of Waterloo is three years in the past but for Giles Fenwick, Earl of Rockcliffe the memories have yet to fade. Giles bears the physical scars of battle and the emotional scars of the long years of war, of friends and comrades lost. Unexpectedly come into the title, he feels ill at ease in the polite world, and despises those who fawn over his wealth and rank. He has no intention of offering for one of the Season’s debutantes and marrying for the sake of an heir.

Cordelia Summers is the daughter of a wealthy merchant who has agreed to be sponsored into the Ton to please her father. Intelligent and strong-minded, Cordelia has a lively sense of humour and is determined not to be married for her fortune. She is not at all sure she wishes to be married at all.

A brief and unexpected meeting in a wayside tavern throws Giles and Cordelia together. It is the beginning of an unlikely friendship, but as the Earl and the Cit’s daughter get to know each other better, they realise that not all marriages are created equal.

The post The Reluctant Debutante – a new edition appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

The Danish Woman is my rather belated Valentine’s Day story for 2026. As always it’s free so please share as much as you like.

Regular readers will know that I never forget a character, even if they only appeared briefly in the books or short stories. The hero and heroine of my 2026 love story (as Valentine’s Day has gone) have both been mentioned before. I think most people will remember the lady. The gentleman never actually made an appearance, but he was discussed. I’ve enjoyed finding out what happened to these two when I took my eye off them and I hope you enjoy it too.

Living on the Isle of Man I regularly travel through the Port of Heysham but a few years ago I decided to take the time to explore the area properly. I was very glad I did. Heysham Village is gorgeous and well worth a visit and like the hero of this story I was fascinated by the ancient hogback stone which now resides inside the church of St Peter.

The inn mentioned at Snatchems is the Golden Ball. It still stands on the banks of the river and serves excellent food. These days customers don’t need to worry about being picked up by the press gang. At least, I hope they don’t.

The Danish Woman

Morecambe Bay in winter was a desperately miserable place to be. Captain Charles Stewart RN did not know the area well and had no desire to improve his acquaintance. His one wish was to conclude his business and return to the comfort of his home in London, to await further news of the refit of his ship which was currently undergoing extensive repairs at the naval dockyards in Portsmouth.

It had been three months since Charles had been given command of HMS Bridget, a fast frigate which had been taken from the French off Martinique the previous year. As First Lieutenant of the Wren Charles had led the boarding party during the attack and taken command of the prize crew which sailed her home. The Bridget would be his first post-command and, at the age of twenty-eight, he knew he was fortunate. It took most officers a lot longer.

Charles liked to think that talent and hard work had contributed towards his early promotion but he was not naïve and he knew that family connections had played a significant part. Ties of both blood and marriage to the Earl of Jersey, Lord Castlereagh and the Marquess of Londonderry gave him an advantage over less well-connected officers. Unlike the army there was no promotion by purchase in the Royal Navy but applications to the Admiralty were definitely influenced by family connections. Charles did his best to hide the fact that he was slightly sensitive about it.

His sojourn in the north was the unfortunate result of having too much time on his hands. On the voyage home from Martinique he had contracted a bad bout of fever which had laid him up for more than a month. For a while Charles had worried that illness would prevent him taking up his new command. It had been a relief when the need for refitting and repairs gave him another few months’ recovery time.

He was back on his feet and able to take gentle exercise when he received a summons to the Admiralty. His audience was with Rear-Admiral Vane, his maternal uncle, but the meeting had nothing to do with family matters. After making polite enquiries about Charles’ health and the progress of the Bridget, the Admiral gave his bad news with an apologetic air.

“We need a man to go to Lancashire for a few weeks. There have been some problems with the press gang around the Heysham and Poulton-le-Sands area on the west coast. Generally speaking these things blow over of their own accord but I’m afraid this one has taken a more serious turn. A man died in a scuffle outside a local inn and we need to hold an inquiry. I want you to chair it.”

Charles tried not to show how appalled he was. “Isn’t that rather unusual, sir? I thought these things were generally held here in London, at Greenwich.”

“They usually are. Unfortunately the man who died should never have been pressed in the first place. The lieutenant commanding the impress frigate seems to have exceeded his orders by several leagues and took up a group of obvious landsmen without making careful enquiries. Mr Samuel Beeston was eighteen-years-old and the son of a local landowner. Old Beeston isn’t really much more than a yeoman farmer mind, but his lands are substantial enough for him to be considered a gentleman.”

“Oh Lord,” Charles said with feeling.

“Precisely. Beeston is well-liked in the area and our press gangs are not. After a great deal of discussion it has been decided that the inquiry should be held locally to show that we are being open and frank in our handling of the matter.”

“Are we, sir?”

“Good God, no. The inquiry will hear all the evidence and find that the death of young Beeston was an unfortunate accident which the Navy greatly regrets. Which is true as far as it goes. Lieutenant Crosby will receive a gentle warning about his over-zealous performance of his duty and as soon as the inquiry is over he’ll be quietly shifted onto half-pay where he can do no more damage. Personally I would like to court-martial the imbecile but we can’t do that without stirring up a hornet’s nest about the activities of the press gang all over the country. We’ll move our operations away from Lancashire and over to the east coast for a while and give the inhabitants of Heysham time to forget.”

Charles made a last-ditch attempt. “I don’t have any experience of chairing such an inquiry, sir.”

“All to the good. I’ll make sure that the scope of the thing is set out in tedious detail so there is no room for anything to go wrong. All you’ll need to do is sit and listen to evidence. We’ll send a man from the Judge-Advocate’s department with you and he’ll manage all the procedures. Just nod wisely and read out the verdict and by the time you get back the Bridget will be ready to sail. Where is it they’re sending you?”

“America I believe, sir.”

“Excellent. Good chance of prizes. Not that you’re in need of it, but it looks good on your service record. Right, that’s settled then. Are you free to dine with us later? Your aunt would like to see you before you leave.”

Charles had never been to the Lancashire coast before. He found it an eerie place. Five different rivers drained into Morecambe Bay and much of the surrounding land had been reclaimed for agricultural purposes over the centuries. In addition to farming, the locals lived mainly by fishing and there were rich cockle beds along the shore. There was a scattering of islands out to the west of the bay, some of which were accessible on foot during low tide. Charles was warned by his host not to venture out without a local guide as fast-moving tides and quicksand claimed several lives each year. Charles was able to reassure Sir Lionel Faulkner that he had no intention of taking the risk.

He had not met Sir Lionel before but his uncle had known him for many years and had suggested the arrangement.

“I’ve arranged for a small escort of marines to be placed at your disposal while you’re in the area. You and Dunbar, the advocate, can stay with Faulkner while you’re there. The inquiry will be held in Lancaster but you won’t want to be staying at an inn for weeks. Faulkner’s a good fellow. He’s a bachelor and a scholar – collects old books and whatnot. He won’t trouble you and he keeps a comfortable house.”

The arrangement suited Charles very well. Sir Lionel occupied a big square house built high on the cliffs at the edge of the village of Heysham, overlooking the bay. It dated from the beginning of the previous century and had long windows with glorious views out to sea. Sir Lionel was an excellent host although rather absent, which suited Charles. The cook provided good plain food and Charles dined with Sir Lionel most days but other than that saw little of him. Sir Lionel spent his time in his library working on a history of the county and seemed happy for his guests to come and go as they pleased.

There was little for Charles to do during the initial stages of the inquiry. Mr Dunbar from the judge-advocate’s department spent his time riding about the district interviewing witnesses and writing extensive case notes, but Charles was not needed during this part of the inquiry. It occurred to him, confined to the house during a week of driving rain and high winds, that he could very well have stayed in London for another couple of weeks.

During the second week the weather improved and Charles took the opportunity to explore the area mounted on a placid grey gelding belonging to his host. The winter days were short and it was very cold but it remained dry and the exercise was good for him. He was beginning to shake off the effects of his illness and, despite the grey skies and broad flat countryside, he was starting to enjoy himself. It was true that he was missing the London Season but after weeks of fever and wretched sickness Charles thought that winter rides, sea air, good food and early nights might be better for him than trying to attend three parties in one evening.

There was also the advantage that he could avoid the attempts of his aunts to find him a wife. Charles had lost both his parents to a smallpox epidemic five years earlier. He still missed them but he had four aunts – two on each side of the family – who took an active interest in his marriage prospects. Although he was sorry not to be seeing those of his friends who happened to be in Town this January, he did not miss the endless parade of eligible girls produced by his Aunts Augusta, Selina, Mary and Juliana every time he was in London.

He had been in Lancashire for eight days before he really saw the sun. Going down to breakfast he found his host and Mr Dunbar already at the table. The sky was a brilliant blue and winter sunlight bathed the dining room. Charles sat down and accepted coffee and rolls.

“A beautiful day,” he said enthusiastically.

“It’s freezing out there,” Dunbar said. “I have to ride over to Bolton-le-Sands this morning to speak to a fisherman who claims three of his crew were illegally pressed last year. It’s going to be a cold ride out on the coast road.”

“Is it possible to illegally press fishermen?” Charles said doubtfully.

“At the moment every seaman who has ever joined the navy along this coast is going to claim illegal impressment, even if they volunteered,” Dunbar said gloomily. “They’re hoping for some kind of compensation.”

“They’ll be lucky,” Charles said, reaching for a slice of ham. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a case of illegal impressment to be upheld.”

“It happens quite often up to the point where the men are sworn in,” Dunbar said. “If they can prove their case they’re simply released. Once they’re aboard and away it’s very unusual. I’ve only ever heard of one case where an officer was prosecuted for it mind, and that was years ago. Long before my time. Can’t remember the name of the captain but I read about the case when I was in training. He’d repeatedly ignored evidence that he’d picked up a gentleman’s son and the boy was underage as well. There was quite a scandal at the time, I think.”

“But you’re not expecting anything of the kind from a fishing crew from Bolton-le-Sands I take it?”

“God, no. Still, I have to show willing. That’s rather the point of this whole exercise; the Navy wants to show the good people of Lancashire that its impress service isn’t allowed to do whatever it likes. Although of course it often does.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Better not, Captain. It’s your job to look impartial at the inquiry next month. Thanks for offering though.”

After breakfast, encouraged by the sunlight, Charles decided to walk down through the village and then up to the ruins of St Patrick’s Chapel on the clifftops. Dunbar had been right about how cold it was but Charles was well wrapped up in his heavy winter cloak and he found the walk exhilarating.

He paused at the gates of St Peter’s, the ancient sandstone church in the village. So far, he had not accompanied his host to a service and he thought a little guiltily that he should do so. The gate was not fully closed and Charles pushed it open and went into the churchyard.

He was surprised to hear children’s voices floating on the still air. He saw them at once, a boy and a girl, both very young, playing by the stone wall which overlooked the sea.

They seemed to be unaccompanied which worried Charles. He had no experience of children but he thought these two could not be much more than four or five. They had found a collection of round pebbles, perhaps from one of the beaches, and were setting them out along the rough pathway. Charles hesitated then went forward.

The boy saw him first and jumped to his feet. His sister remained fixated on the stones until her brother grasped her arm and pulled her up. Charles stopped a safe distance away.

“Good morning,” he said.

To his amusement, the boy executed a little bow. “Good morning, sir.”

His voice was high and clear and he spoke in accents which did not suggest he was one of the village children. Charles looked around in search of a nursemaid or governess.

“Surely you’re not alone up here?” he asked.

“Mama is inside the church,” the girl said. “Who are you?”

Charles supposed that she had the right to ask given that he had approached them. He bowed in turn.

“Captain Charles Stewart at your service, miss. I’m staying with Sir Lionel Faulkner. Forgive me, I was wondering how you came to be out alone. But if your mother is close by…”

“We are not to leave the churchyard,” the boy said. “She said we could play here.”

“It’s because she doesn’t like us to see her cry,” the girl said.

Charles froze and looked over towards the little church. He had intended to go inside to look around but the children’s remarks made him hesitate. He guessed that whoever the woman was, she had been visiting a grave and he did not like to intrude.

“I see,” he said politely. “Well I am sure she won’t want a stranger to see her cry either so I’ll make my visit another time. Thank you for telling me, children.”

“I’m Annalise,” the girl said. “I’m four. My brother is five and his name is Paul. He remembers my father better than I do.”

Charles felt a little shock even though he was not surprised. He wondered what illness had robbed this little family of its father. Given the ages of the children he had probably been a young man.

“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Annalise,” he said gravely. “Is he buried in the churchyard here?”

“We don’t know where he’s buried,” the boy said. “But there’s a stone in the church. You should come and see it: it’s splendid. It has two flags carved on it and a sword as well. This way. Mama won’t mind; she’ll have finished crying by now.”

He took Charles by the hand and towed him towards the church door. Charles was so surprised that he went along, although he suspected that the grieving widow would be wishing him to the devil. The wooden door creaked a little as the boy pushed it open and Charles stepped inside.

“Mama, this is a captain and he wants to see Papa’s stone,” Paul said in ringing tones. “I told him about it.”

Charles stopped inside the door, forgetting his embarrassment at the unexpected beauty of the little church. The walls were of mellow local stone with exposed wooden beams above. There was a lower chancel and a small side chapel. Several stained glass windows made dappled, colourful patterns on the paved floor. There was also an octagonal sandstone font which looked very old to Charles’ untrained eye. A number of ancient grave slabs and memorials adorned the walls, probably commemorating previous rectors.

It took a moment before he saw the woman, as she was standing in one of the dimmest corners of the church. She was not dressed in full mourning but wore a soft, mauve gown under a dove-grey cloak with matching bonnet. Charles could not see her face clearly but he gained the impression that she was quite young.

“Mama, show him Papa’s stone,” the boy said again.

She moved forward and Charles went to meet her, gently disentangling himself from the child. They met in the centre of the nave and he bowed awkwardly.

“My apologies for disturbing you, ma’am. I’m a visitor to the area and was coming to see the church when I met your children outside. Your son was keen for me to see his father’s memorial and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Captain, if you do not view the memorial stone there will be no peace, trust me.” She looked past him at the waiting children. “I will show the gentleman, Paul. Wait outside for me. I will not be long and then we shall walk up to the old chapel.”

The boy gave a sunny smile, grabbed his sister’s hand and disappeared outside, closing the door with exaggerated care. Charles surveyed the woman and bowed again.

“Captain Charles Stewart, ma’am, of the Royal Navy. I’m staying with Sir Lionel Faulkner.”

“Ah, the inquiry into the press gang. How interesting.”

She appeared younger than he had expected, hardly old enough to have two children, and she was very attractive. Charles was intrigued by her accent. She was clearly not English although she spoke it perfectly. He wondered if she might be German.

“I don’t seem to have much to do at the moment, ma’am, which is why I’m here making a nuisance of myself in a country church.”

She gave a broad smile. “You are not a nuisance, though I suspect my children may have been. They do not meet many new people here and they are very sociable. Also you are an officer which will always interest Paul.”

Charles was beginning to wonder. “I see. Was your husband a navy man, ma’am?”

“Army,” she said and turned, gesturing for him to follow her. “He is not buried here of course. He died at Salamanca the year before last and was buried somewhere out there. My father-in-law was still alive then and had this splendid memorial placed here.”

Charles studied the white marble stone. It was very fine, with crossed flags draped over a cannon. Lying beside the gun, as though dropped there, was a sword. The symbolism was clear and Charles, who had seen friends and crewmen die in battle, felt a little shiver run through him. He read the wording underneath. It was the usual flowery tribute of courage, duty and devotion to family. The dates told him that Captain John Kent had been twenty-six when he died. The girl standing beside him had been a widow for around eighteen months. He turned to look at her.

“I’m so sorry Mrs Kent.”

“Thank you. I miss him greatly, although it gets a little easier with time.”

“Was this church… I mean, I presume you live locally?”

“Yes, I currently reside up at Stokely Hall.”

“Is that the rather beautiful house with the exposed beams? I’ve ridden past it.”

She smiled. “Yes, it has been in the family for two hundred years.”

“But you’re not local, I collect. I’m trying to guess your accent.”

“I am from Denmark. A little village on the coast to the north of Copenhagen.”

Charles found himself wondering about that. As a younger officer he had served during the brief campaign in Denmark during 1807 and, given the age of the children, the timing would be right. He managed not to ask and he was certainly not going to mention that he had taken part in the bombardment of Copenhagen which had flattened half the city.

She had turned and was walking towards the door. “How long are you staying in the area, Captain Stewart?”

“Until after the inquiry: about another three weeks. After that I return to my ship, sailing for American waters.”

He opened the door and held it for her. Outside in the winter sunlight he could see her more clearly and had to remind himself not to stare. She was lovely, with dark-brown hair, blue eyes and fair skin. He found that he could not blame Captain John Kent for finding himself a Danish bride during that short, miserable campaign, though he wondered again how old she must have been. She did not look as though she could be much more than twenty-three or four now.

“Have you seen St Patrick’s Chapel, sir?”

Charles realised that he must have been standing like a fool. “Oh… the ruins on the cliff? Not close up, though I’ve ridden past.”

“Are you on foot today? We are going to walk up there. The children love it. You could accompany us if you wish for a guide.”

He felt his heart give a little skip. Mocking himself silently he bowed.

“If it would not be an imposition, ma’am, I would like that very much.”

***

It had been a long time since Christa Kent had walked in the company of a young officer, or any gentleman at all. The way was fairly steep, though the children raced ahead making light work of it. The naval officer paced steadily beside her. Once or twice he reached out a hand to steady her when the rough path became slippery.

Christa allowed him to do so, though she did not really need his help. She wore stout boots and had walked this path many times before. Still it was pleasant and reminded her of all the times she had walked beside her husband. Jack had always treated her as though she was a delicate creature in need of constant care and protection. Christa knew she was not, but she had enjoyed it anyway.

St Patrick’s Chapel stood on the headland above St Peter’s Church and was built from the same sandstone. Most of the structure had long gone but the south wall, the east gable wall and the eastern section of the north wall still stood and there were low ruins of several other walls which contrived to give a good idea of the original building.

The children raced ahead and Christa allowed them to go. They had lived all their lives on this wild shore and knew what they should and should not do. She watched as Captain Stewart explored the ruins then made his way over to a curious set of holes cut into the rock nearby.

“What on earth are these?”

“It is believed that they are tombs. There are six here and another two over there. You should talk to Sir Lionel as he is an expert on such things. He once told me that these are probably from the eleventh century and that those holes at the top would have held the base of a wooden cross.”

“They’re fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Nor have I. We have many ancient sites in Denmark but when I was a girl I had no interest in such things. All I wanted was to marry and leave. Sometimes now I wish I had listened to my father more and not brought him such sadness, but I was young and very silly.”

He turned to study her. He was a tall, dark man with a rather serious face. Christa wondered suddenly if his sallow complexion spoke of recent illness.

“How old were you… no, I’m sorry. That was impertinent.”

She smiled. “I gave you the opportunity to ask. I do not mind. I was sixteen when I married Jack and I have never been back to Denmark. War makes such things difficult.”

“I’m sorry. Did you meet him during the campaign of 1807? I was there, though aboard a frigate.”

“Yes. I thought he was wonderful. I wanted adventure. He wanted… me, I suppose. His Commanding Officer was furious about our marriage but he forgave me later. He was always good to me. He is Paul’s Godfather.”

“Do you have any other family here?” Stewart asked, falling into step beside her as she followed the children over the springy grass along the cliff-top. “It’s very beautiful, but a lonely spot for a young widow with two children.”

“It was my home with Jack. I am happy to remain here for as long as I am able.”

Steward shot her a curious glance. “Surely this is your home now?”

Christa hesitated, realising that she had said more than she intended. She had so little social interaction these days that sometimes she forgot the rules. Glancing at Stewart she saw nothing but respectful interest and decided that she did not care. This man would drift out of her life after today. It hardly mattered what she said to him.

“When Jack was killed his father was still alive. He had not always approved of me but we grew closer with time. Mr Kent believed that I had persuaded Jack to marry me because I wanted to get away from home.” She gave a little smile. “Looking back, he was probably right. But we were very happy together and I grew to love him so much. It is cruel sometimes that one barely realises how fortunate one is until everything changes.”

“When did your father-in-law die?”

“Six months after Jack. He was already unwell but I think it hastened his end. I nursed him. He spoke very affectionately to me during those days and mentioned changing his will. He died before doing so.”

She saw the Captain’s eyes darken a little. “What did that mean for you? And your children?”

“For the children, nothing. The house and estate will go to Paul when he is of age. There will be a dowry for Annalise. But I am not their guardian. That passed to Mr Frederick Kent, my husband’s cousin. He is a solicitor who lives in London and has always disapproved of me. I think he would have liked to take the children from me, only he is unmarried and would not have the least idea what to do with them. But he has control of the estate and the money.”

“Did your husband leave you nothing?” Stewart said. He sounded appalled.

“It was not at that time his to leave. But he made a will which requested that the allowance his father paid to him be continued to me. It is not a great deal but I am allowed to continue living in the house.”

“What of the children? Are you expected to support them?”

“Essential household expenses are paid from the estate but I have to apply to Mr Kent for anything else. New clothing for the children, a pony for Paul… I feel like a beggar. I’m sorry, I am sharing far too much with a complete stranger. I do not talk to many people you see.”

“Do you have anyone living with you? A female companion?”

“No. I have no friends here and I could not afford a paid companion. One day Mr Kent wishes Paul to be sent away to school and I shall then ask for a governess for Annalise. I don’t want him to go but I have no say in the matter.”

Stewart shook his head sombrely. “I’m sorry; that’s shocking. Did you not make friends here while your husband was alive?”

Christa shrugged. She was surprised at herself but she realised that she was tired of being brave. The opportunity to confide was irresistible.

“Not really. I had many friends in the regiment but since I came back here… It is an isolated place and they don’t take well to strangers. Locally, they simply call me the Danish woman.”

At the end of their walk she watched him go, his long-legged stride making easy work of the path back to the village. They had talked of other things after her uncomfortable revelations: of his naval service and Jack’s army career, of London and Copenhagen and the progress of the long war. He was easy to talk to – too easy perhaps – but as Christa followed the children back up the track towards the house she decided she did not regret her indiscretions. Just for once it had been good to speak the truth.

Stokely Hall was an old manor house dating to the seventeenth century, which had been updated several times over the years. It was too big for a young widow with two children who did not entertain. Sometimes, sitting with her sewing during the long winter evenings, Christa daydreamed about what she would do if she had guardianship of her children and the estate. She thought that she would have found a tenant for the house and rented somewhere smaller and more manageable for herself and the children, perhaps in a small town where they might make friends. She had enjoyed living in Melton Mowbray when the regiment had been in barracks there.

Christa had suggested something of the kind to Mr Frederick Kent once the terms of her father in law’s will became clear. Kent regarded her as though she had attempted some kind of fraud.

“Utterly unsuitable,” he snapped. “My cousin’s children should be raised in his ancestral home. In time the boy will go away to school of course and we must give some thought to a proper English education for the girl. The terms of my uncle’s will were very generous to you. You will continue to receive an allowance until the boy reaches his majority when it will be up to him whether it may continue. You may also continue to reside at Stokely Hall. Most females in your position would consider that enough.”

Christa had noticed that Kent never referred to the children by name. They were always the Boy and the Girl. She was suddenly furious about it. She was also furious at being referred to as ‘a female’, as though six years of marriage counted for nothing.

“You mean most widows. That is my position, Mr Kent. A widow. I was married to your cousin for almost six years. I ask only what is best for my children. And for some respect.”

Kent’s face looked pinched and angry. “Just so, madam. Presumably that is why my uncle was so generous. Of course, should you remarry the terms of that will would no longer apply.”

Christa thought it was clear that he hoped she would do so, probably to a wholly unsuitable man. She said nothing more, being unwilling to argue with a man she so cordially disliked. She could not really imagine being married again. She had grown to love Jack very much during the years of their marriage.

At the same time, she resented the isolation of her life. At not quite twenty-three she was too young to be shut away in this big, old house in the country. She missed the liveliness of regimental life. She missed music and dancing and flirting. She missed conversation with an ache of loneliness.

When the children were asleep, she settled herself in the parlour to write to her father. Most of the reception rooms were kept under holland covers. Mr Kent was strict about the number of servants employed at the hall. Christa did not really mind. She was not in a position to entertain and she had no wish to sit in solitary splendour in the enormous drawing room or dining room.

All the same, it was a little depressing to pass through rooms shrouded in linen covers. Christa thought that the house was like herself: closed down and silent with none of the colour or gaiety that it deserved. It was no life for such a lovely old place and no life for her or her children. Christa remembered Jack, who had been so sociable and so lively, and blinked back tears. He would have been furious to see her brought to this.

***

She had not expected to see the young naval officer again but she encountered him only three days later in the village of Poulton-le-Sands. She had just emerged victorious from an argument with the butcher over the quality of the meat in his last delivery when she saw Captain Stewart coming out of the hardware shop opposite.

He saw her immediately and crossed the street, stopping before her with a bow.

“Mrs Kent, what a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

“Very well, as you see.” Christa realised she was smiling broadly. It was such a refreshing change to see a welcoming face in the village where the best she generally encountered was civility. “Are you doing your shopping, Captain?”

“I’m doing Sir Lionel’s shopping. I offered to make myself useful since I really don’t have anything to do until next week when, thank goodness, they have finally set a date for the inquiry. Sir Lionel was very put out this morning with a delivery of ink which resembled nothing so much as a pot of sludge. He will return it of course but, in the meantime, he was about to run out. The housekeeper informed me that you can buy anything in Felton’s, though it would be more expensive. She was right as well.”

The Captain shot a fond look at the shop and Christa could not help laughing aloud. His expression reminded her so much of Jack.

“Now that you have discovered Felton’s, I predict that you will be a frequent visitor,” she said. “All the men love this shop. I do not understand it. There are so many things on the shelves or hanging from the ceilings that I do not know how anybody ever finds anything in there. But Jack went inside every time he came to Poulton when he was at home. Always he came out with things he did not need and had not intended to buy.”

A guilty expression flashed across the serious face and then unexpectedly, Stewart began to laugh.

“Did he? He has all my sympathy. That place is like a cave full of treasures. In addition to the ink I am now in possession of a new snuff box for my first officer, some blotting paper, and a bolt for Sir Lionel’s tool shed which I intend to fit this afternoon to stop it from blowing open every windy night and keeping half the household awake.”

Christa threw up her hands. “You see? It is like a magic spell. But it only works on men.”

“Are the children not with you today?”

“No, they have their lessons. We do not have a governess at present so I teach them myself. But they also have some lessons from Mr Archibald the parson. He is preparing Paul to go to school when he is a little older but he is kind enough to teach Annalise as well. She is very young but she works hard because she wishes to do everything her brother does.”

“It’s going to be hard for her when he goes to school.”

“It will be hard for me also. But it will not be for three years. They will not take them any younger.”

“That’s still too young in my opinion.”

Without intending it, they had fallen into step together, strolling along the High Street. Christa shot him a sideways glance.

“Do you think the same about the very young boys they accept into the Navy?” she asked, greatly daring.

He looked surprised. Then he grinned.

“I am bound to say yes, ma’am, given that I was once one of them. I was Navy mad but it was still too young. I realise that now.”

“Why did you… no, I am sorry. I am too curious.”

“Don’t you rather feel as though we’ve already moved beyond mere politeness?” he asked, surprising her again. “I was the younger son. We’re expected to earn our living. I chose the Royal Navy over the army because I loved the sea. My older brother died when I’d been at sea for two years. It was a stupid accident: a cut that became infected. My parents wanted me to come home but by then… home seemed very small and very confining. I wanted adventure.”

“Oh I understand that so much,” Christa said fervently.

“Do you? I never really thought of girls looking for adventure.”

“That is because you have no idea how dull it can be as a clergyman’s daughter in a tiny Danish fishing village. When the British army came everybody was horrified. I was happy. There were handsome young officers in red coats and all I could think about was a way out.”

She wondered if she would shock him. Instead he smiled.

“That’s very honest.”

“I was very fortunate. Some of those handsome officers might have taken advantage of my naivety then abandoned me. Jack asked me to marry him. We barely knew one another but I was so grateful. He introduced me into a whole new world. He was an honourable man and so good. No wonder I fell in love with him.”

There was a long silence. Eventually he said:

“I think that’s possibly the most genuinely romantic story I’ve ever heard.”

She stared at him in amazement. “Even though I admitted that I did not feel that way at the start?”

“That’s why it’s so lovely. To start off on such rocky ground and then to find what you two had… I’m envious.”

“You are not married then? Oh no, I am sorry. That was so tactless.”

To her relief he was laughing. “I’m not. I am avoiding it because… oh for many reasons. My aunts are furious. Have I mentioned my aunts? I have an entire pack of them and they spend their lives hounding me about matrimony. Every time I show my face in London I am paraded as a good catch. I suppose I am. I’m not wealthy but I’m very comfortably off and I could easily support a wife and family. But I just… I don’t want to marry a girl I hardly know then sail off not knowing when I’ll see her again. Mrs Kent, why on earth am I telling you all this?”

They had reached the edge of the village with nowhere else to go apart from the open road and it was in the wrong direction for Christa. She laughed and towed him around so that they faced the village again.

“Unless we are walking to Scotland sir, we must go back. It is probably my fault. I confessed all kinds of unsuitable things to you when we last met. And also today. You are a man I find easy to talk to. When does this inquiry begin?”

“On Tuesday.”

“And how long will it take?”

He pulled a face. “I’ve honestly no idea. A week, perhaps. The Navy is keen to hear local opinion, given what happened. At the very least I think the inhabitants of this part of the coast may get a break from the activities of the press gang.”

“Knowing how much misery they cause I think that alone will be worth it,” Christa said soberly.

***

With an eye to local opinion, the inquiry had been opened to the public. It was held in Lancaster Castle and, settling himself at the head of the court, Charles observed that seating had been arranged for the upper members of local society with an interest in the case, while benches and standing room allowed the lower classes access providing they behaved. Bailiffs stood ready to evict anybody who spoke out of turn.

On the first day the room was crowded. Witnesses were sworn in, procedures explained and the scope of the inquiry was read aloud in such excruciatingly tedious detail that by the third day, when the real work of the inquiry began, most of the casual onlookers had grown bored and departed.

Charles had no interest in the spectators until he noticed a serene figure in dark-blue seated beside a woman who was probably her maid. He could not imagine why Christa Kent had any interest in a Royal Navy inquiry into possible misbehaviour by a press gang but the fact that she was there immediately distracted him from the proceedings. It was so bad on the first day that he seriously considered sending her a note asking her to stay away. He already knew what the Admiralty expected of him but he still felt obliged to listen to the evidence properly and for reasons he did not care to explore, the presence of Captain Kent’s attractive young widow made it difficult for him to concentrate.

He looked for her afterwards as the spectators were leaving but must have missed her. At the end of the second day however, he found her in the castle grounds in conversation with the parson and his curate, both of whom had attended the proceedings. Charles joined them and Christa made the introductions. The Reverend Archibald was a round-faced gentleman with thinning hair and a pleasant manner.

The curate was probably in his twenties and had little to say. Watching him, Charles decided that Mr Cresswell had a decided interest in Mrs Kent. He did not think it was reciprocated, or even noticed. It amused Charles. He also realised, with a little start of surprise, that he was pleased by her indifference. The thought gave him pause. In due course, the little group broke up to go their separate ways. Charles promised Mr Archibald that he would attend service on Sunday and the Vicar offered a tour of the church and churchyard in return.

“You will probably not have seen our hogback,” he said genially. “It is quite unusual. We are very proud of it. My wife hopes you will join us for tea at the vicarage afterwards. You also Mrs Kent, if you are free. Mary will be happy to entertain the children.”

Charles accepted with pleasure. The two clerical gentlemen disappeared in search of their carriage and Charles realised he had no idea how Christa Kent had got here.

“May I escort you to your… horse?” he guessed. “I know you’re an intrepid walker but you cannot have walked all the way from Heysham to Lancaster.”

She laughed. “Nonsense, it is no more than five miles. I didn’t though. My poor maid loathes walking, which is why I usually leave her at home. I came in the gig. I no longer keep a riding horse, though Mr Kent has agreed that he will provide a pony next year so that Paul may learn to ride. But there is one elderly horse who can pull the gig.”

Charles was beginning to recognise that deliberately neutral tone of voice.

“Do you miss riding?” he asked as they passed through an ancient stone archway and turned left towards the Bell Inn.

“So much. My mare had to be sold. I couldn’t afford to keep her. I’ve been able to keep the small gig though, for shopping. Old Bertie, who pulls it, should really be put out to pasture now but I don’t use it any more than I have to. I wanted to come to the inquiry, though I won’t make him do the journey every day.”

Charles heard a little catch in her voice as she spoke of her horse. He was shocked at how viciously he wanted to punch Mr Frederick Kent. He kept his voice deliberately light.

“I should think you would die of boredom. I may do so myself. Look, I’m not sure how you would feel about this. And I’d need to ask Sir Lionel. But he keeps several riding horses in his stables, mainly for the use of his nephew and niece when they come to stay. Those animals have nothing to do but eat themselves silly at this time of year. Sir Lionel rarely rides in the winter: he admits it. If he would allow me to borrow the mare, would you ride with me?”

“Oh I could not. Such an imposition.”

“It wouldn’t be. You’ve proved an excellent guide on foot but there are one or two places I’d like to see which are further away. Particularly the inn where the press gang tried to snatch young Beeston and his friends. Where he died. It’s on the river somewhere.”

“At Snatchems,” Christa said. She seemed to notice his expression and smiled. “I know. When I first came here my English was not so good. I did not understand at all.”

“Is it really called that?”

“Not on any map but it is what the local people call that stretch of the River Lune. The inn is called the Golden Ball and they tell stories of smuggling as well as the press gang.”

“Will you be my guide ma’am?”

She hesitated for a long time. “If Sir Lionel does not object,” she said finally.

***

The tea party at the vicarage was a great success. Christa thought that it was a measure of how isolated she had become that even such limited social contact made her happy. She thought nostalgically of the early days of her marriage. She had loved regimental life. The 110^th had been stationed in barracks for a while with a brief stint in Ireland. There had been dinners and dances and Lieutenant Kent had been keen to show off his pretty young wife. She had never been happier.

When Jack had gone to Portugal, Christa could not go with him as she had the children but she had remained in Melton Mowbray in their rented house. There were many other regimental wives living locally, some of whom had children. She was never lonely.

After Jack’s death she had given up the house and come here to his childhood home where his father was already very ill. Broken with grief, she had nursed her father-in-law in his final weeks and grieved all over again at his death. It had never really occurred to her that her life and that of her children would go on to be controlled by a man she hardly knew, who clearly disliked and disapproved of her.

If it had not been for Paul and Annalise, Christa thought she would probably have told Cousin Frederick exactly what he could do with his allowance and tried to find a way to return to Denmark, to her father, though the war would have made that difficult. As it was the children must come first. She tried to make the best of her changed life for their sake but the arrival of Charles Stewart had made her realise how lonely she really was. She dreaded his departure.

Mrs Archibald, the vicar’s plump cheerful wife was very kind and seemed a little embarrassed.

“I feel rather guilty at how I’ve neglected you, my dear,” she said as they followed the gentlemen out into the churchyard to inspect the hogback. “I know I called once or twice when you were first here but since then… I think we all believed that you would go back home. Or perhaps take up residence in London. But it seems as if you intend to remain here.”

Christa wanted badly to tell her that she had no choice, but she did not. Her surprising confidences to Captain Stewart had probably been brought about by the knowledge that he had no relationship to any of these people and would soon be gone. She could not bare her soul to the vicar’s wife.

“Until the war ends it would be difficult to visit Denmark, ma’am. Though one day I would like my children to see where their mother was born. Until then, this is my home.”

“Well, we must see what we can do to make you known to more of your neighbours,” Mrs Archibald said. “We generally invite a few people to dinner once a month or so and now that your mourning period is fully over there can be no reason why you should not join us. If you would not object that is?”

“Thank you, I would like that,” Christa said.

They had reached the hogback which was set at the back of the churchyard. Captain Stewart stood looking at it in apparent bewilderment.

“What on earth is that? It looks very old.”

“It is ancient,” the vicar said rather proudly. “I do not know exactly when it was discovered; it was here when I took over the living. The locals say it was found up at the site of the ruined chapel and moved down here. Feel free to study it closely, Captain. The carvings are fascinating.”

Stewart seemed to agree. The hogback was a curved piece of sandstone around six feet in length, carved on all sides with a variety of figures. The Captain crouched down to examine them. There were both animal and human figures, some of them looking like creatures from mythology while others seemed to depict real animals.

Christa had seen the stone many times but Stewart’s fascination caught her interest and she moved forward to study it again. Her companion was running his fingers over the stone.

“This looks like a snake. And is this meant to be a dog?”

“If it is, it’s not like any dog I ever saw,” Christa said. “Look at this group here. This animal has antlers.”

“I think it’s a stag. I think this is meant to be a group of hunters. This is extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wonder how old it is.”

“Around this side is what looks like two birds. Possibly this is a tree.”

“Is it a gravestone of some kind?” Stewart wondered.

“If it is he must have been a man of some importance,” the vicar said.

The Captain lingered for several minutes after the rest of the party had returned to the house. Christa waited inside the church door for him, amused by his absorption in the old stone. He caught up with her with a quick smile.

“I’m sorry. You must be cold. I can’t get over that thing but I’ll come back on my own another time.”

“Are you interested in history?”

He gave a slightly sheepish grin. “According to my late mother I bored the whole family on the subject from early boyhood. It’s one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed my stay with Sir Lionel so much. It’s rare to meet a fellow enthusiast. He’s been lending me some of his books.”

He stopped and Christa had the impression that he was reining himself in with an effort. She wanted to tell him that she did not mind. She had never really given much thought to matters historic before but she had discovered that she was happy to listen to Charles Stewart talk on any topic he chose. It was slightly embarrassing.

***

The dry weather continued for the following week. The inquiry ground to an inconclusive standstill on Wednesday and Captain Stewart called an adjournment until the following week when he might choose to recall several witnesses after considering their testimony. After that, he would be ready to write his final report for the Admiralty.

 It gave him time to arrange his proposed expedition to the curiously-named Snatchems on the banks of the River Lune. To Christa’s surprised delight Sir Lionel seemed perfectly happy to lend his mare, so Captain Stewart and Christa rode out on a crisp winter morning. They talked for a while of the inquiry.

“What will happen once you have submitted your report?” Christa asked.

“I have no idea. Presumably they’ll present the findings to some Parliamentary committee or other and it will sink without trace. They’ll have to make a report to the local authorities up here – at least I hope they do. I’m going to be honest to you since I can’t be honest to anybody else. I think the impress service in this region has been poorly run, ineffectual and lazy about whom it took up. I hope they heave that Lieutenant out on his ear. Sadly that won’t be my decision. Poor Samuel Beeston’s death will be put down to an unfortunate accident. I think it was an unlawful killing. If one of my crew did what that press agent did aboard my ship I’d have him up for murder.”

Christa gave a little shiver. He seemed to notice it because he reached over and touched her hand, bringing his horse close in.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to stop talking about it. I’m not spoiling our first ride with horror stories. What do you make of Rose Red?”

“She’s beautiful,” Christa said, running her hand down the smooth neck of the pretty russet coloured mare. “It’s such a joy to be on horseback again, even if it is only for today. Thank you for arranging it, Captain.”

“It’s for my benefit as well. Sir Lionel is delighted to have found somebody other than his groom to exercise her. If you get on well today I suspect you may find he’ll ask you to do it again. You made a good impression on him earlier, I could tell. He may take pride in his image as a crusty old bachelor but I noticed it doesn’t stop him appreciating a pretty woman. Shall we try a canter? This country is perfect for it.”

They rode through the frosty morning, turning along the river bank until they reached the white painted inn which overlooked the broad flat waters of the Lune. Christa remained on horseback as he dismounted, tied up his horse and went to examine the rough area of scrub and stunted trees where Samuel Beeston and three friends had tried to evade the men of the press gang who waylaid them as they left the inn.

To Christa’s surprise he asked her to accompany him inside. Seated at a wooden table she drank local cider and listened as he talked to the landlord and his wife. He had already taken their evidence in the courtroom but here they spoke more freely.

Christa took no part in the conversation but listened to him skilfully drawing them out. She realised that he would not be able to use everything he learned today in any report to the Admiralty and wondered why it was so important to him to find out what really happened that evening.

On their return ride she asked him. He seemed to consider for a while.

“I think it’s my Navy training. Accuracy is important. Sometimes it isn’t possible to deliver a perfect result, whether it’s a court martial, a skirmish with the French or a botched raid by an incompetent press gang. I know my duty here. But I owe it to Samuel Beeston and his family to at least recognise the truth.”

“I think that is very admirable, Captain.”

“If not much help to the family. Thank you for acting as guide today. Look, I’m going to reconvene the inquiry on Thursday and wind up proceedings on Friday. After that I’ll need to go back to London. I realise I’m going to miss this. Do you think you could find time to ride with me again tomorrow? Not as my guide. Just for your companionship.”

“Yes,” Christa said without hesitation. She wondered if she should qualify it in some way then decided that if he did not need to, neither did she. “I am going to miss this as well.”

The weather was kind and they rode together for three bright sunny days, exploring the surrounding countryside. They ate bread and cheese in a wayside inn where they were not known and on the second afternoon Christa invited him into the house to take nursery tea with the children. Paul and Annalise were delighted with their visitor and Christa thought that she had never seen them so well-mannered at the table.

On the third day he rode into the stable yard with her, having agreed to lead the mare back to Sir Lionel’s stable. It had begun to rain over the last half-hour and they were both wet and a little subdued.

The Captain dismounted and lifted her down from her horse. Christa hesitated. She wanted to invite him into the house but she suspected that he would decline, wanting to get the horses back into their own stable so that they could be rubbed down and fed.

“I hope I’m going to see you again before I have to leave.”

“I was intending to go to the final day of the inquiry. If you do not mind.”

“I’m delighted, though it promises to be a singularly unsatisfying conclusion. I had originally intended to set off the following day, but I think I’m going to delay it until Monday. Mrs Archbald has invited me to dine on Sunday and they’ve been so kind. I’d like to go.”

“She has invited me as well.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. All the same it may be difficult to find the opportunity to speak to you alone so I…”

“So it is true,” a voice boomed. “I could not believe what I had been told, yet here I find you. Brazenly and publicly disgracing my cousin’s memory without a thought for the effect your conduct might have on my wards. How dare you, madam.”

Christa spun around, shocked. A stocky gentleman of around forty had emerged from the front door of the hall. He stood at the top of the steps, keeping out of the rain.

“Mr Kent,” she said, and was horrified to realise that her voice was shaking. “What… how do you come to be here? You gave me no warning.”

“That was my intention, madam. Once I was informed of your appalling conduct I felt it my duty to find out the truth for myself. Little did I imagine that on the very day of my arrival I would catch you in the act of…”

“Of riding a horse in a public place,” Captain Stewart finished in crisp tones. “Now that is shocking, ma’am. I’m surprised he’s not brought a Bow Street Runner up from Town to effect an arrest. Why don’t we go inside out of the rain? There’s nothing worse than brangling in a downpour, although you often can’t avoid it aboard a frigate. There’s not much space below decks.”

He took Christa’s arm gently. She knew he must be able to feel how badly she was shaking and hoped he would put it down to cold rather than fear. She was afraid, not for herself, but for her children, should this austere, judgemental man take them away from her.

Kent looked momentarily shocked but rallied quickly. “I agree that my cousin’s widow, if that is what I must call her, should come inside to answer for her conduct if she may. You, sir, will not set foot inside this house.”

“Well I’m going to. If my company is that unpleasant to you I suggest you remove yourself. And if you make any more remarks of that nature to this lady I’ll be happy to help you on your way with a swift kick to the seat of your trousers.”

Christa turned to stare at Stewart in astonishment. He gave her a reassuring smile.

“I need to see to the horses,” he said quietly, ignoring Kent’s splutter of fury. “Go inside, go to your room and get changed. You’ll catch your death like that. I’ll join you in your parlour. Don’t look so worried. To be honest I’m glad he’s here. I was intending to pay him a visit when I was back in London. This will save me some time.”

Christa had no idea what he meant, but his calm manner was reassuring. She arrived in the parlour to find both men present. Kent was standing before a newly lit fire in the traditional stance of the man of the house. Captain Stewart was seated in an armchair with one booted foot crossed over the other. He had acquired a glass of wine. As she entered he rose, led her to the sofa then went to the sideboard to pour a glass for her.

“Are you sure you won’t have one, Kent? It’s a cold day out.”

“I have no wish to drink in such company.”

“Good. Here you are, Mrs Kent. It will warm you up. Are the children all right?”

“Yes. Nurse is giving them their tea. Paul is rather upset though. He tells me that Cousin Frederick has told him that he is taking him to London tomorrow and he has no wish to go.”

“He isn’t going anywhere. I’ve only had time to make the most cursory enquiries by letter so far but I can tell you that, without authorisation from a court, he has no right to take your children. As a matter of interest, did you ever see your father-in-law’s will personally, Mrs Kent?”

Christa was so shocked that she could not speak immediately. Kent made a noise like an enraged pig.

“Do you dare to insinuate that I am not the legal guardian? Do you know who I am?”

“I’ve only the vaguest notion of who you are, Kent, although I know what you are. On the other hand, it’s clear to me that you don’t have the least idea who I am. Since I can’t stay for long I will give you a brief summary. It may help you to make an informed decision. Sit down.”

“I will not sit down.”

“Well go and stand somewhere else then. You’re blocking the heat from the fire and your cousin is shivering.”

Christa watched in something like awe as the Captain advanced towards the fireplace. To her horror he stooped to pick up the poker. Kent skipped quickly out of reach. Stewart smiled slightly, knelt and stirred the fire, adding more wood. He rose, turned and looked at Kent.

“Allow me to introduce myself formally. Captain Charles Stewart, RN, recently appointed to command the frigate HMS Bridget. On my father’s side I’m second cousin to Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary. He is my Godfather. On my mother’s side I’m equally closely related to the Childs’ banking family. In fact I’m a very minor shareholder. You’ll probably be aware that the majority shareholder is the Countess of Jersey. I learned a while ago that my family connections are not necessarily the way to get what I want but I’m fairly sure that you’ll understand that I am going to have no trouble finding my way through the intricacies of the Court of Chancery. Or the money to pay the barrister.”

Kent found his voice. It came out as a squeak.

“My cousin’s children are not Wards in Chancery.”

“They soon will be if I manage to find any evidence of shady legal dealings on your part. And I think I might.”

“Why?” Christa said, finally able to speak. “Charles, what makes you think there might be something wrong?”

“I don’t know much about the army, Christa. But quite by accident I happen to know that the Colonel-in-Chief of the 110^th, who also happens to be a major-general serving under Wellington, takes a very unusual attitude to his duties. He personally employs a very reputable firm of London solicitors to act as advisors to his officers about their legal affairs and he insists that they all make proper wills. He must be completely eccentric, but that’s his business. My cousin Claude mentioned it to me when I made my own will after my father died. He approved my farsightedness and told me a few tales of disaster about fellows who had not made proper provision for their families. He also told me about the 110^th. Apparently it’s an army joke that no officer of the 110^th dies intestate unless it’s because his commanding officer has beaten him to death for being a feckless idiot. Since that didn’t happen to Captain Kent I’m assuming he followed orders. Did you see either of those wills, Christa?”

“No. I was told about them by an attorney. I think he must have been from the same law practice as…”

She tailed off and looked at Kent. He looked very pale.

“Well, we’ll see. With your permission I’d like to instruct my cousin Claude on your behalf. He’s well respected and will represent your interests. May I have your permission to tell him to write to you?”

“Yes,” Christa said. She could feel tears in her eyes and realised that she had not felt this well-protected since Jack had died. “Oh yes.”

Kent gathered himself. “Regardless of your family connections, sir, what possible right do you have to speak on behalf of this lady?” he ground out.

Charles Stewart did not look at him. He was smiling at Christa.

“That’s a conversation which is probably going to have to wait a while,” he said. “I have to get this damned inquiry off my hands first and I need to get back to London. I’ll get Claude to write to you. And I’ll write to you myself. Will you reply?”

“Yes,” Christa said. It seemed to be the only thing she could say at present but it seemed to be enough.

Stewart finished his wine and turned to Kent.

“I need to go, which means you need to leave as well. You’re not staying the night here, partly because Mrs Kent lives alone and you’re unmarried so it would be improper. Mostly because you’ll try to bully her and then I’ll end up punching you. Out. I’ll point you in the direction of the nearest inn. Or perhaps you can find accommodation at the vicarage. I expect the Curate will be happy to help, given that he was your informant.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Kent demanded.

“Because I’m not an idiot and who else would care? Christa, I will see you before I leave, I promise.”

“You will see me tomorrow at the inquiry,” Christa said. Suddenly her courage had returned. “Also on the following day and at dinner at the Rectory on Sunday. Ride safely. It’s raining very heavily.”

He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good afternoon. Kent, let’s see what they’ve done with your hat and coat shall we?”

***

London was damp, cold and infernally crowded. To his amusement, Charles found himself regretting the windy open spaces of the Lancashire coast, although he was not convinced that it was the sea air and bird life that he was missing.

After weeks of being mostly free to manage his own time and activities he was suddenly caught up in a series of meetings and social events. The Admiralty demanded notes, annotations and explanations with regard to his report of the inquiry. His uncle demanded a detailed account of what had really happened in the sad case of Mr Samuel Beeston and the Snatchems press gang on the banks of the River Lune. His aunts, all four of them, appeared from all directions demanding his attendance at balls, receptions and the wedding of a distant cousin that Charles could barely remember. Relations, in the number he had, were the very devil when a man was in a hurry.

He was in more of a hurry than he had intended, given the unexpected result of his visit to Lancashire. Between business and social activities and several frantic visits to Portsmouth to deal with last minute decisions about the refit of his ship, Charles found time to meet with his cousin Claude Fane. He would have liked to have been more involved with Claude’s subsequent enquiries but he did not have time.

He returned from a third journey to Portsmouth in the early evening, arriving at his London house on Upper Wimpole Street cold, tired and hungry. His butler had barely taken his cloak and hat when there was a knock at the door. The butler apologised and went to open it, his face ready to express disapproval at anybody making an unscheduled call at such an unsuitable hour. Charles went through to the study where there was a fire and a decanter of wine set out.

The butler reappeared. “A letter, Captain. I would not have troubled you until tomorrow but the messenger said it was urgent. From Mr Fane, I believe.”

“My cousin Claude?”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles took the note and read it quickly. He stood up, his exhaustion forgotten.

“I’m going out, Morrison.”

“You have barely come in, Captain.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m going round to Mr Fane’s rooms in Palmer Street. He has some news for me. Give my apologies to Mrs Clarke; I won’t need supper. Mr Fane has offered to feed me. Will you send the boy for a hackney?”

“Very good, Captain.”

Morrison’s tone informed Charles that he did not consider it good at all. He had inherited the butler from his parents, along with the house and most of the staff. The older servants had a tendency to treat him as though he was still a midshipman but Charles was old enough now not to resent it. He appreciated their loyalty.

Mr Claude Fane, a cheerful man in his mid-thirties, was unmarried and lived in rooms above his thriving law practice in Palmer Street. He greeted his cousin affectionately, informed him that he looked half-dead and should stop racing around all over England, then provided a chair by the fireside and an excellent claret.

“I’ve sent out for supper from Hogan’s. They do an excellent pork chop and my cook only comes in daily so can’t provide supper at short notice. I’m glad to see you, Charles. You’re a difficult man to catch for more than five minutes these days.”

Charles gave a rather weary smile. “To be honest I’m looking forward to being at sea. It will give me a rest.”

“When do you expect to depart?”

“Another four weeks, I think. My orders are to join the squadron in Long Island Sound.”

“Think you’ll see much action?”

Charles shrugged. “A lot will depend on these next few months in Europe. If the war really is going to end, and they’re taking bets at the Admiralty, there’ll be pressure on the Americans to seek peace.”

“It was a bloody stupid war to start with.”

“It was. I suspect national pride was involved on both sides but if the Royal Navy is no longer having to deal with the French we’ll have more time to spare for our American brothers. I’d sue for peace quickly if I were them. But you didn’t haul me from my fireside when I’d barely stepped into the house to talk international politics, Claude. Do you have news for me? Do you act for Mrs Kent?”

“I do. She replied charmingly and very decisively, engaging my services. As requested by you, there has been no mention of my fee. I’m rather presuming…”

“You’ll be paid one way or another, Claude. Get on with it.”

“How did you know that Kent was up to something?”

Charles froze. He set down his glass. “I didn’t. Was he up to something?”

“In a manner of speaking. If you didn’t know…”

“It didn’t feel right. His behaviour towards his cousin’s widow was too harsh. At first I just assumed he’d disapproved of the marriage and was a miserable bastard. But then it occurred to me that what he was effectively doing was isolating her. I wondered why.”

“Very clever. You should have been a solicitor, Charles.”

“I should expire from boredom. Also… I didn’t realise to start with that she nursed the old man in his final illness. She was under the impression that he made no changes to his will because there wasn’t time. But there was plenty of time. I got to know the vicar in Heysham while I was there. He and his wife were regular visitors to old Mr Kent and they made it clear that he remained mentally sharp to the end. Mr Archibald gave it as his opinion that the loss of Kent’s only son probably hastened his death, but he didn’t suffer memory loss. So what have you found? A codicil of some kind?”

“Better than that,” Claude said smugly. “I have found another will.”

Charles choked on his wine. “What?”

“Surprised Charles?”

“I’m astonished. But I don’t understand. Why does nobody else know about this will? What does it say?”

“Somebody definitely knew about the will. I’ve seen copies of several letters which confirm that Frederick Kent was present at the reading of the will. It took place in… look, never mind. Stop choking and drink some water. That sounds like the arrival of supper. I’ll pick up the story while we’re eating. Food may stop you interrupting me so much.”

Claude had been right about the food. Hogan’s Chop House, which was situated at the corner of Palmer Street and Caxton Street provided an excellent supper. They ate pork chops and steak and kidney pudding washed down with more claret and Claude told his story with relish.

“It’s not surprising that nobody knew old Kent had changed his will because he didn’t use his usual solicitor. In fact he didn’t use anybody local at all. About three months before he died, Mrs Kent and the children went to stay with some friends in Whitby. Army friends I believe. No idea why, although the chap I spoke to thought the old man might have suggested it to give her a break from the nursing. He was pretty much bedridden by then and she seems to have taken on the burden of caring for him herself.”

“So who nursed him during that time? The housekeeper?”

“Another relative came to stay: a female called Thorpe, from Manchester. Some kind of cousin. Mrs Thorpe was escorted by her son: a Mr Gilbert Thorpe who was the new junior partner of a respected firm of Manchester solicitors: Grey, Harbottle and Thorpe. The Thorpes stayed for the week, until Mrs Kent returned from her holiday, then they packed their bags and went home. Apart from possibly attending the funeral and sending a letter of condolence, I don’t suppose they thought of it again. It was just a matter of family duty to the old man. They barely knew the young widow.”

“What happened to the will?”

“Several copies were properly witnessed and signed. At the request of the old man, young Thorpe sent one to Frederick Kent in London as he was a named executor. He kept another in his office in Manchester in case it should be required.”

“Why didn’t he come forward when the old man died?”

“He did. He wrote to Kent very properly. Kent assured him that he had the will and would make all necessary arrangements for the administration of the estate.”

“Did Kent destroy the new will then? And if not, why not?”

“He didn’t destroy it because he was a potential future beneficiary under that will. He simply failed to make its provisions known to the widow. Or, which is more serious, to the other gentleman who was appointed joint executor and guardian of the two children.” Claude reached for the bottle and refilled both their glasses. “That’s really the only thing Thorpe did wrong. He should have made a point of informing that gentleman of his new responsibilities under Kent’s will but he left it to Frederick Kent to do so, probably at that worm’s suggestion. I don’t have any proof yet but I doubt he even knows he has two wards.”

“Who is it? Oh wait – the boy’s Godfather? Christa told me he’s named after his Godfather.”

“A gentleman by the name of Major-General Sir Paul van Daan, currently making a name for himself serving under Wellington in France. I don’t know the man but I do know his reputation. I have just written to him.”

“What does the new will say?”

“It’s not that different to the original but changes were made after Jack Kent’s death. In the first will everything was left to Jack as his only son. After that the boy would inherit when he reached the age of twenty-one. Provision was made for an allowance for the widow and a dowry for the girl when she was ready to marry.”

“That’s what Christa told me.”

“There are some things she doesn’t know. The allowance was far more generous than the one Kent is paying and, in addition, all household expenses including those for the children should be paid out of the estate. She shouldn’t need to write begging letters for children’s clothing and the price of keeping a respectable riding horse and carriage horses.”

“So what changed with the second will?”

“With his son gone, the child became heir. There’s a trust set up until he’s of age and its provisions are very sensible and extremely detailed. The children have two guardians but their day-to-day care is placed firmly in the hands of their mother. There’s no suggestion that Frederick Kent has any right to remove them. In fact he can’t do anything without the agreement of the other trustee and joint guardian.”

“Van Daan.”

“Yes. More importantly, if Mrs Kent remarries her allowance stops, but there is a generous bequest by way of a dowry.”

“Good God.”

“Just so. But the reason Kent didn’t destroy the second will entirely was because if anything happened to the two children he was to inherit everything apart from the bequest to Mrs Kent.”

“Wasn’t that the case in the original will?”

“No. If the children died, and sadly so many children do, the estate would have been divided between several cousins with equally valid claims.”

“Bloody hell. He really found himself in a fix. But why in God’s name didn’t he just produce the new will? It’s not as if there was any benefit to him in the short-term. He didn’t want to look after those children.”

“I don’t know, Charles. He clearly loathed your Danish lady. Perhaps he had a secret thing about her when young Jack first brought her home and she rebuffed him. Or failed to notice him at all, which can be rather worse. Whatever the reason, he’s landed himself in the soup now. The legal profession rather frowns on one of their own trying to swindle the widow and orphans, even in such a roundabout way. It gives all of us a bad name.”

Charles was considering. “Claude, you’ve done extraordinary work. Thank you. But I still don’t understand how you managed to discover the existence of a new will made out by a solicitor you’d never heard of in a town you never go to. What was it, magic?”

“Oh, I had help. When Mrs Kent first wrote to engage me formally, I’d asked about the will. She’d never actually seen it so my first intention was to write to the cousin and demand to see a copy. But she mentioned that there were boxes and boxes of papers in the old man’s study. Most of the house was simply closed down because she couldn’t afford the servants to keep it up. The study was one of those rooms. Because she had no idea if any of the paperwork was important she just locked the door. She wrote that she rather expected that one day Mr Frederick Kent would decide to go through it.”

“He probably didn’t even realise it was there,” Charles said softly.

“I can only assume not.”

Charles understood. “You found the will.”

“My clerk did. He was there for three days, covered in dust. He found the will as well as copies of letters to Kent asking him to write to Van Daan. I think the old man was fading fast by then but he tried to do the right thing.”

“What happens now?”

“I’m going to write to Kent formally, setting out everything I know. Under the circumstances there might well be charges of some kind, if it’s proven that he’s played fast and loose with the estate finances. Myself, I doubt he has. I think he’s playing the long game. But either way he can’t stay on as trustee.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I’ll also write to Van Daan. He is not going to be able to take leave and come home to sort out this mess just now, though from what his solicitor has recently told me about him, I’d quite like to be in the audience when he does. The solicitor, a man called Solomons, is going to suggest that Van Daan authorises him act on his behalf. He can make sure the widow receives her full allowance and that the estate is properly financed. He can also set enquiries in train to see if Kent has had his fingers in the strong box. That’s probably all we can do for now.”

“That’s probably all Christa requires. I presume Kent will resign as a trustee.”

“I’ll make sure of that. Solomons seems like a good man; I can work with him. I need to write to the widow to explain it all.”

“Entrust the letter to me, would you? I don’t have much time before I sail but I’d like to deliver it in person. Let me have a note of your fee, Claude. Presumably ongoing expenses will be met out of the estate but until that’s authorised, I’ll settle your account. I’m so grateful.”

Claude helped himself to the last beefsteak from the serving dish. “Thank you old man but there’s no need. I don’t charge family members. Or potential family members. Give her my best wishes. I’m looking forward to meeting her in person.”

***

Christa was stunned into silence by Charles’ account of Mr Frederick Kent’s duplicity. She took the package of letters from the solicitor and stared at them.

“Should I read them now?”

“No. Take your time over them; they’re important. You should hear from the estate bankers within a few weeks about your allowance and how the expenses of the house will be more suitably managed.”

“I am truly shocked. And so grateful to both you and your cousin. You’ve done so much.” She managed a little smile. “I’ve no idea how much this has cost but I hope Mr Fane does not mind waiting a little for me to settle.”

To her immense surprise, Charles Stewart flushed. “I’ve spoken to him about it. Any longer-term legal expenses will be settled by the estate. There is no hurry.”

“What about my cousin-in-law? What will happen to him?”

“I don’t know,” Charles said honestly. “I know very little about the law. If it is discovered that he has stolen from the estate, I imagine Sir Paul van Daan will want him to be prosecuted. I don’t know the man but…”

Christa laughed aloud. Charles stopped speaking and stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing a little. “It’s not a laughing matter I know. It is just that I do know the man and if he discovers that his fellow trustee has stolen from his Godson I think he is more likely to punch him than prosecute him. I hope he has not.”

“So do I.”

“If he has not, I hope no prosecution will be necessary. All I wish is for him to go away and leave us alone. The important thing for me is that I no longer have to scrimp and save to clothe myself and my children. And I need no longer fear that one day they will be taken from me. Captain, you have done all of this. I can never express my gratitude enough. Thank you.”

“My cousin Claude did all the work. I just pointed him in the right direction. I appreciate your thanks, ma’am, but I think a great wrong has been put right. Or will be soon.”

“That is of course very important, Captain.”

“I think so, ma’am.”

Christa met the steady dark eyes. “We have become very formal since you were last here.”

“That’s because I’m terrified.”

It made her giggle. “You? What nonsense. I saw you deal with Cousin Frederick. Now I understand how you fight the French. You have no fear.”

“I do right now. I can only stay for a few days, Christa. I’m needed in Portsmouth. Before I leave, I have a request. I’m here in time for the Lancaster horse fair. It’s on for three days: they sell horses and livestock and there’s also a hiring fair and a market. They hold it twice a year at the beginning of spring and of autumn. Would you be willing to accept my escort? I’ll hire a carriage and we can take the children and make a day out of it.”

Christa stared at him in surprise. “A horse fair?”

“There’s a lot more to it than that. There are games and sports and food stalls. I think Paul and Annalise would love it. We can bring your maid.”

“That sounds very proper,” Christa said gravely. “We would be happy to accept. Tell me, are you in need of a new horse, Charles?”

He grinned and shook his head. “Not really. My stable at home is well stocked and I don’t have much need of a horse when I’m at sea. I would like to buy a horse for you and I thought we could see if we can find suitable ponies for the children. We should also hire a proper groom and perhaps a stable lad to take care of them and to help teach the children to ride.”

Christa was so surprised she could not speak for a moment. Eventually she said:

“Until the estate is more settled Charles I cannot afford…”

“You don’t need to. It will be a betrothal gift. If you think you might… that is if you would consider…”

She realised with a little lift of happiness that this was the request she had been hoping to hear. He looked as if he had been nerving himself to say this all the way from London to Lancashire. It was painful to watch.

Christa had never been shy, which was how she had managed to marry a young British officer within two weeks of meeting him. She had grown up a lot since then but she realised that Captain Charles Stewart RN was currently just as tongue-tied as Lieutenant Jack Kent had been all those years ago. She gave a little laugh and walked forward into his arms.

“You made those two requests the wrong way round, Captain.”

“I know,” he said ruefully. “Christa… will you?”

“I will tell you for certain once you have kissed me.”

He laughed with her and bent to obey her order. When he finally lifted his head, the tension had left his body. She felt warm and safe and very much at home in his arms.

“I have never really been properly betrothed before,” she said, smiling at the memory. “We were young idiots and we did not have time.”

“Well I’m afraid it will have to be a betrothal this time sweetheart. But not for that long, I hope. As soon as this tour of duty is over we’ll be married. In the meantime, I intend to write to my aunts. I cannot wait to introduce you to them. You will be a considerable relief to all of them.”

The post The Danish Woman appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

Daylight Robbery: a Christmas short story for 2025

Introduction

Welcome to Daylight Robbery, my rather belated Christmas short story for 2025. I’ve had a bit of a dry run on short stories during this half of the year. I didn’t manage a Halloween one and this one is late. My excuse is the publication of An Inexorable Invasion followed by Winter Quarters, the second collection of my short stories. December has also seen my daughter and her boyfriend moving into their new house, quickly followed by the announcement of their engagement. It’s a very impressive list of excuses, you’ve got to admit.

As the Peninsular War Saga moves towards the end of the war I have to be more and more careful about spoilers when choosing topics for short stories. For this one I’ve moved away from the war zone to pick up the story of the Van Daan family at home. Regular readers will easily slot this story into the timeline but I hope it can also be enjoyed in its own right.

The treatment of veterans after the Napoleonic Wars has been dealt with in an excellent book by Evan Wilson called the Horrible Peace.  You’ll be hearing more of this in later books, though one suspects the veterans of the 110^th and associated regiments will be well-supervised by an over-conscientious Major-General without enough to do until his next campaign.

I hope you all had a great Christmas. Wishing everybody a very Happy New Year. Bring on 2026.

Daylight Robbery

It was barely light on a cold December morning when the travelling carriage was brought round so that the servants could load up the luggage. The driver stood in the shelter of the porch with one of the post-boys discussing the route they were to take to London and where they would stop to change horses.

The master of the house stood in the hallway listening and managed to stop himself going over to give them their instructions one more time. It was possible to travel from Leicestershire to London in one day, especially in a well-built carriage and several changes of horses but as Mrs Patience van Daan would be travelling with a young baby, she would break the journey halfway at the house of a cousin.

Sir Franz van Daan waited until the carriage was fully loaded. Mrs van Daan’s maid brought a pile of warm rugs for the journey and placed them on one of the seats. There was a long pause but nobody else appeared. Franz closed his eyes and counted to ten very slowly. His younger son had once told him he sometimes found it helpful when trying to control his explosive temper. Franz did not think it was helping him much at all.

Eventually there were sounds from above and his daughter-in-law began to descend the main staircase very slowly. Behind her, the nursemaid carried the wriggling form of his granddaughter who, at six-months-old, was the youngest member of the household. She was wrapped in so many blankets and shawls that she looked twice her usual size. Franz watched as the nursemaid carried her to the front door. He did not envy the three women who had to share a carriage with Elizabeth. She loathed being swaddled like a newborn and had an astonishingly loud yell.

Patience paused beside him. She looked tired and her eyes were red as though she had been crying again. Franz felt a pang of sympathy alongside his exasperation. For many years he had got on very well with his elder son’s wife and he wished he knew what to say to her now.

“Have a safe journey, my dear. Give my regards to your Cousin Alice and if you are very tired, stay with her for an extra night. Once you’re back at Tevington House you’ll soon pick up.”

“If my child dies of cold during this journey I will never forgive your son. Or you.”

Franz felt his sympathy slipping away again. “The way you have her wrapped up, she’s more likely to smother,” he said shortly, then forced himself to stop. “Patience, if you’re really that worried, tell Nurse to bring her back inside and unload her things. I’ll be here over Christmas and you have a fully staffed nursery. She’ll be very well taken care of.”

“As if I would leave my daughter behind.”

“With her grandfather?”

“With anybody,” Patience said. Franz was horrified to see her eyes fill with tears again. “I cannot believe that Joshua could be so unfeeling as to order me to choose between a dangerous journey in freezing weather or abandoning my child.”

“Oh for God’s sake ma’am, do not enact me another Cheltenham tragedy,” Franz snapped, losing his patience entirely. “You’ve travelled in far worse weather than this over the years, without turning a hair. You’ll be in London by midday tomorrow. Josh has an entire battalion of nursery maids ready to look after his daughter and your only job is to be with your husband, enjoy the Christmas season and try to feel more like yourself again.”

“I will never forgive him for this,” Patience sobbed, taking refuge behind her handkerchief.

“I hope you don’t mean that,” Franz said, managing a more moderate tone. “Many women would be pleased that their husband wants their company so much that he is prepared to insist upon it, rather than…”

He broke off, realising that he had been about to say something completely inappropriate. To his relief she did not respond. She gave a small, stiff bow and turned towards the door. Franz caught her arm and kissed her gently on her wet, cold cheek.

“I hope that this time together will remind you both of how happy you were before,” he said tiredly. “Goodbye, Patience. God speed your journey.”

She said nothing. The nursemaid waited beside the door. As Patience swept through it, Franz limped quickly to the door.

“Wait,” he said. The nurse paused.

Franz bent over his granddaughter. She was awake and looked rather grumpy but at the sight of him she gave a broad toothless smile. Franz felt his heart turn over. He bent to kiss her and knew a sudden pang of anxiety in case Patience was right and they should not be travelling in such cold weather so that they could join Joshua in London. Then he reminded himself how robust his other grandchildren were and was reassured. Elizabeth did not look at all delicate.”

“Goodbye, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Look after your mother. I’m going to miss you.”

***

The truth of that statement struck Franz anew as he sat down to a belated breakfast. Southwinds, his country home, was a big house and needed a family to fill it. Since the death of his wife and daughter of smallpox more than twenty years ago he had spent most of his time in his London house, managing his ever expanding business empire. It had made perfect sense to do so and it was only recently that Franz had begun to wonder if he had spent twenty years running away from his grief.

In recent years, Southwinds had been full of children again as Josh and Patience had taken on the task of raising the family of his younger son; an ambitious and successful army officer. Major-General Paul van Daan was still in Europe, serving with some distinction under Lord Wellington. His second wife was with him and his five children, ranging from eleven to just one year old remained with his family in England.

The arrangement had worked well for many years but had become complicated since Patience, at the age of thirty-four, had finally given birth to a healthy daughter after years of miscarriages or stillbirths. Joshua had been overjoyed and Franz was delighted for them but the birth seemed to have affected Patience badly. Instead of taking pleasure in her child, she seemed to be overwhelmed by fear for her and her protectiveness meant that she was reluctant to leave the baby even to spend time with her husband.

Franz did not really blame his son for putting his foot down and insisting that Patience join him in London for the Christmas season, though he was not sure about his timing. Still, experience had taught him to remain firmly out of his sons’ personal lives and all he could do was hope that things improved.

In the meantime, he was faced with the unexpected prospect of Christmas alone in the big, empty house. It was not really empty of course. Servants brought his breakfast, served his tea or coffee and cleaned the rooms. Franz was so accustomed to their presence that he barely noticed them. It would not have occurred to him to start up a conversation with the footman or the groom, though he reflected that his younger son would have done so without hesitation. The thought made him smile.

Franz had received a number of invitations to Christmas house parties but, assuming that Josh and Patience would be at Southwinds, he had declined them all. The rest of his grandchildren were spending Christmas in Yorkshire with their other grandparents and Franz had anticipated a quiet season. At seventy-five, he was still limping slightly from a fall on the hunting field the previous winter and he had been looking forward to the peace. He had not expected it to be quite this peaceful.

Still, he was a grown man and it would do him no harm to eat his Christmas dinner alone this year. It was time he stopped feeling sorry for himself. It was a bright, cold morning and he should send a message to the stables and go for a ride.

It had taken a long time for his broken leg to heal and the fall had shaken Franz more than he had been prepared to admit to anybody else. It had made him feel old in a way that nothing else ever had. Josh and Patience had fussed over him and his younger son had written good-humoured orders take care of himself and slow down a little. Franz was exasperated by all of them.

For a while, he had unwillingly followed advice and taken a groom when he went out riding, in case he should fall again, but that made him feel even more old and decrepit and he hated the feeling. For the past month he had gone back to riding alone as well as covering more difficult ground and longer distances as the weeks went by. The weather was miserable and sometimes, as he rode back into the stable yard soaked to the skin and shivering, he wondered if he was mad. But he knew he was beginning to regain both his fitness and his confidence so he persisted.

There was no danger of rain today, though it was bitterly cold. Franz took the road out towards Ashfordby Hill and rode up to the crest. There was a broad view out over the patchwork fields and low rolling hills of the Leicestershire countryside. The sky was a brilliant blue with small, puffy white clouds blowing ahead of a chilly breeze and the winter sun was deceptively bright with no warmth behind it.

Franz did not mind. After several weeks of rain and occasional sleet it was glorious to be out in such weather and he could feel his mood beginning to lift. There had been a heavy frost the night before and some of the fields still sparkled in the sunlight. He hoped that Patience would have such weather for the first leg of her journey. It might raise her spirits and prevent her from spending the entire time brooding over her husband’s unreasonable behaviour. On the other hand, if Elizabeth yelled for the entire journey, Patience was going to arrive at her cousin’s house even more aggrieved and probably with a headache.

Franz set his chestnut mare into a canter. Ruby was not his usual mount. Caesar, his tall, black stallion, had fallen badly when Franz’s accident had occurred. The hunt master had advised shooting the distressed animal but Franz refused. His head groom was good with sprains and strains and assured him that Caesar had not broken the leg and could heal, although he would probably not be able to hunt again.

Franz did not care. Caesar had been his favourite hunter for many years and he had not realised how much he had come to love the horse until he was faced with the prospect of losing him. With his own broken leg, it was impossible for him to visit the stables for several weeks and he fretted over the horse. He also mocked himself silently for all the times he had laughed at his wife and his younger son for their sentimentality over animals.

Caesar had healed and entered an honourable retirement where his only job would be to sire a new generation of prime hunters in the Van Daan stables. At some point Franz wanted to look around for a new horse; possibly a gelding. He had not regained his enthusiasm for the hunting field but he loved to ride. In the meantime, Ruby suited his more restrained pace. She had originally been bought for Patience, but his daughter-in-law was not an enthusiastic rider and the mare needed the exercise.

On the far side of Ashfordby Hill there was a cluster of houses, too few to be called a village. They were in poor repair and Franz tried to work out whose tenants these might be. Possibly the cottages were on common land but it was unlikely. The Leicestershire countryside had been carved up and enclosed into big estates many years before Franz had purchased Southwinds. Whoever this land belonged to, and he suspected he knew, was a poor landlord.

Franz trotted down towards Ratcliffe, a small village with a particularly fine fourteenth century church. The road was reasonably good given the recent weather and he cautiously allowed Ruby to canter for a while, reining her in as the open countryside gave way to a series of small but dense coppiced areas on both sides of the road. Deer were common in this area and even a pheasant, surprised into sudden flight, might startle a horse.

The sound that tore through the winter silence was far worse than a startled game bird or bounding deer. Franz had no warning and jumped as much as the terrified mare. Ruby reared up with a shriek of fear and Franz felt himself falling from the saddle once again.

His body hit the ground hard, driving the breath from him. For a long moment he lay winded on the rutted road. He had landed in a huge muddy puddle and he could feel the water soaking into his clothing. His hat had fallen off. He could hear the thudding of hooves as Ruby took off in panicked flight. Hopefully she would find her way back to her stable which would alert the grooms that their master was in trouble.

Eventually Franz caught his breath again and cautiously moved. Everything ached but he felt no agonising pain in his weak leg or anywhere else. Miraculously he thought that this time he had escaped serious injury. Carefully he eased himself into a sitting position and looked around.

A shadow across the road told him that someone was approaching from behind him. Presumably whichever idiot had let off a shot in the coppice had been after game birds and had not thought to check if the road was clear. Franz thought he had probably been lucky not to have been shot by some inexperienced or careless sportsman and took a deep breath, ready to give the gentleman a piece of his mind, when the shadow fell across him and the man stepped into view. Franz closed his mouth and said nothing. He was in worse trouble than he had realised.

The shotgun, as he had expected, was an old fowling piece but the man wielding it was not a gentleman. He was tall and thin and it was hard to judge his age although Franz suspected he was younger than he looked. Desperately hard living, including periods of hunger, had hollowed his cheeks. His long frame was slightly stooped and his clothing was worn and badly patched. He had no cloak or overcoat and he was visibly shivering. Franz wondered if that was due to cold or nerves but it did not really matter. All he could see was those shaking hands on the shotgun. It was pointed directly at Franz.

“Money,” the man said, through clenched teeth. “Whatever you’ve got on you. And your watch. Also that ring. Argue with me and I’ll cut your bloody finger off.”

Franz took a deep steadying breath. “All right,” he said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “Though the ring might be a problem. It’s been on this finger since my wife gave it to me and my knuckles have swollen since then. Can I stand up?”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

The man stared at him from bloodshot blue eyes then nodded. Franz struggled painfully to his feet, wishing himself twenty years younger. He felt old and vulnerable and frightened and he hated it.

“If your wife wants you back alive she’d be glad to lose that ring,” the man said.

“She’s not here to care any more. She died twenty years ago along with my daughter. I’m going to reach into my pocket for my purse. There’s not much in it.”

He threw the leather purse to the footpad and the man caught it. He shook it and pulled a face.

“Not much to you, but it’ll feed me for a while. Your watch?”

Franz reached into his coat. He felt a pang as he withdrew the watch; it had been a gift from his father-in-law during the early years of his marriage and he never took it out without thinking of Lord Tevington, who had welcomed an upstart Dutchman into his family with extraordinary generosity and kindness. Still, it was not worth his life, so he tossed it to the footpad and was surprised once again at the dexterity with which the man caught it.

“What’s your name?” Franz asked.

The man sneered. “So you can report me to the magistrate?”

“That will only work if your name is known to him and I’m not convinced,” Franz said. “You don’t sound local and if there have been robberies along this road before I’d have heard of them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I am a magistrate,” Franz said evenly. “Your first name will do.”

The footpad hesitated. For a long moment Franz was sure that he would not answer but then he said:

“Jack. My name’s Jack. Now the ring.”

Franz hesitated for a long time then took a grip on the gold signet ring. He knew perfectly well that it would not come off. Age had swelled his knuckles. For a time he had wondered if he should ask the goldsmith to cut it off but it was perfectly comfortable and he could not bear to lose it yet. It spoke of Georgiana and happier days when he had been young and in love with his wife. He tugged several times, his eyes on the shaking shotgun.

“I can’t do it,” he said finally.

“Do it or I’ll fucking cut it off.”

Franz had heard of cases where men had bled to death after a thief had cut off a finger. He felt slightly sick. He also felt, to his surprise, a new sense of anger and determination. He was old and had begun to feel very frail since his accident but there had been a time when he was young and, during his years with the East India Company, he had faced worse dangers than this. Unexpectedly his memory of that younger man gave him courage. He held out his hand.

“Go on then.”

He caught the look of sheer horror on the other man’s face and knew, with a little spurt of triumph, that he had not misjudged his opponent. This man had been driven to theft and violence by sheer desperation but he was not comfortable with it.

Unexpectedly Franz thought of his younger son. It had been a dinner party many years ago when an elderly neighbour had been holding forth about the appalling quality of recruits into the army; so many of them coming from criminal backgrounds. Paul had listened, his wine glass balanced in his hand. He had drunk far less than anybody else at the table. Opposite him, his first wife Rowena had worn an anxious expression, probably knowing what was about to happen.

“How do you know so much about these men, sir?” Paul had asked. “Forgive me, but it’s easy to judge sitting around this very comfortable table after a meal cooked by my father’s excellent chef. But how do you know their quality or their abilities unless you’ve worked with them?”

“And I suppose you think you know better, boy?”

Paul set down his glass. “Well yes, sir. I do.”

Franz took a long steadying breath. “Why don’t you put the gun down?” he said evenly. “You have to be at least thirty years younger than me. More, I’d guess. You can lay me out in a second, cut off my finger and steal my ring. I’ll probably bleed to death before anybody finds me. Though if we’re going to do this by the side of the road, you’d better do it quickly. Somebody could come past at any time. Why don’t we go over into the trees where you were hiding just now? That way you can kill me whenever you want to.”

He turned towards the trees and began to walk, horribly aware of how exposed he was to a shot in the back. Part of his brain was screaming at him not to be an idiot. The other part was thinking, considering, planning. The other part, God help him, was curious.

The trees provided some shelter from the wind and it was a little warmer. Franz turned to his attacker. The younger man looked anxious and miserable. Franz decided to press his advantage and held out his hand.

“Go on then. Get it over with, boy.”

“I’m not going to cut your finger off.”

“It’s a gold ring. My wife gave it to me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” the man said furiously. “I’ve got the money and the watch. I’m going to run now. Don’t follow me or I’ll shoot you and you’ll die waiting for them to find you.”

Franz felt unexpectedly calm. “If you can’t cut my finger off, I don’t think you’re going to shoot me, boy. Put down that fucking gun. It’s shaking so much you’re as likely to shoot yourself in the foot as to kill me. What in God’s name are you doing out here?”

“That’s none of your damned business.”

“Jack. Is that your real name?”

“That’s none of your business either.”

“If you’re going to shoot me or cut my finger off, I’d really like to know the name of the man who did it. Humour me.”

Abruptly the man lowered the gun. “Jack was my brother’s name. He was killed in Spain, at a place called Vitoria. He was my mother’s favourite.”

There was a long silence. Franz weighed up his options like the businessman he was. For the first time, he did not think he was about to die.

“My son was at Vitoria,” he said conversationally. “Have you ever been to the church here in Ingleby? The parson’s son lost his left hand in that battle. I knew him from a boy. It was hard.”

There was a long painful silence. Then the footpad began to cry.

“My name is Churchill. Private Jonas Churchill of the 27^th Foot. That’s who I was. I was sent home after Sorauren. That’s a place in the mountains. They shot me in the knee. I’ve got a wooden leg.”

Franz abruptly understood a number of things. One of them was why this man had not run away. He could not.

“You can keep the watch and the money. But they’re not worth that much. My horse will have gone back up to the stables. They’ll be out looking for me in a bit. You should go, if you want to. But selling the watch will be hard in this district. Have you robbed many men?”

“A few. I had a job for a while at the inn, over in Ratcliffe. But I was too slow and the landlord dismissed me. Since then I’ve done odd jobs here and there.”

“What about your family?”

“Mother died last year. There’s nobody else. Except…no family. Look, I’m going.” Churchill hoisted the gun. “You’re right, they’ll find you. I’m sorry. I’ve got to eat.”

Franz felt a flood of relief as he realised he had not misread the situation. At the same time, the man’s words nagged at him.

“What did you mean about your family? You said except. Except what?”

“He’s not my family. He’s nothing to do with me.”

“Who?” Franz said. He felt a sudden sense of unreasonable urgency, although he had no idea why.

“It’s not your business.”

“You made it my business when you stole my money and threatened to kill me. Fairly soon my grooms will be out looking for me. Unless you’re willing to shoot them, they’ll overpower you in minutes. Who?”

There was a long painful silence then Churchill capitulated. “A boy. Just a boy. I found him in a ditch. I don’t even know his name but he’s alone and starving. I’ve been feeding him. He’s just a boy.”

Franz felt a chill and then a sense of absolute certainty. “Where is he?”

“Back there, hiding in the trees. Look, you can just go. I won’t hurt you.”

“You were never going to hurt me,” Franz said. “Take me to him. Right now.”

***

The boy was probably six or seven years old. He was huddled against the trunk of a big oak tree, deep in the woodland, under what Franz recognised as a tattered old army greatcoat. It explained why Private Churchill was shivering without his coat on.

Franz did not need to examine the child closely to recognise his desperate condition. He was painfully thin, his sunken face completely white and his lips faintly blue. The hands that clutched the coat around him were skeletal and his feet were bare. Franz turned to look at Churchill. In comparison to this boy, he looked almost healthy.

“When did you find him?”

“Almost a week ago. I was making my way towards Leicester. Begging where I could. Stealing when I had to. I thought there’d be more chance of work there, though not many places are hiring through winter time. Still, I thought one of the inns might give me a try. I was looking for somewhere sheltered to sleep when I heard him crying. Could barely hear him, mind.”

“Was he alone? Where had he come from?”

Churchill shrugged. “God knows, but he wasn’t alone. Didn’t start that way, I mean. The other one was dead. A woman. Stiff and cold.”

“So you took him.”

“Not for good. I can’t adopt him; I can’t even feed myself. I thought I’d try and get to a town. The Parish will have a workhouse or an orphanage.” Churchill looked down at the boy. “But it’s so slow. I can’t walk fast and the past day he’s not been able to walk at all. I tried carrying him on my back, but he’s heavy for a man with a wooden leg.”

Franz felt sick. Finally he moved forward, dropped stiffly to one knee and put a hand on the child’s head. As he did so, the boy opened his eyes. They were a very dark brown, with long lashes, and they looked incongruous in the gaunt face.

Franz felt a wave of helpless panic wash over him. He was not equipped to deal with this and had no idea what should be done about it. Churchill was probably right. The child should be taken to the parish officers in one of the bigger towns. If he survived, and Franz was by no means sure that he would, they would know what to do about him.

Franz straightened painfully, his eyes still on the child. The dark eyes were staring back at him with something like curiosity.

“Can he speak?”

“At the start he cried for his Mam a bit. Not for a few days now. He’s dying, isn’t he?”

There was grief in the other man’s voice. Franz turned to look at him. Abruptly he felt ashamed of his own helplessness in the face of what this man, far too close to starvation himself, had tried to do for a boy who could not even tell him his name. Franz thought of the regular, very generous donations he made to various charities every year for the relief of the poor and indigent. In recent years he had begun to give to veterans’ charities as well.

He realised abruptly that he had always given help at a comfortable distance but had never troubled to see what his money was supposed to be relieving. Clearly, in this case, nothing had reached these two at all. He wondered how many more like them were wandering the highways of England, starving to death in ditches and forests. And here he stood, warmly wrapped in a good overcoat, wondering what to do next. He looked back at the shivering child who seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness again. Franz was suddenly terrified he would not wake up.

He thought briefly about his family. Joshua, always competent, would probably know exactly which parish officer could be called upon to deal with a starving orphan and would also call the constable to arrest the footpad. Patience would have left the matter in her husband’s hands, possibly making a donation towards the child’s upkeep should he survive.

Franz did not know his other daughter-in-law quite as well but given that Anne spent her time working alongside the army surgeons in the worst possible conditions, he suspected she would have known exactly how to treat this child and would not be standing irresolute wondering what to do next. And then there was Paul.

“What would Paul do?” Franz said softly.

He did not realise he had spoken aloud until Churchill gave him a bewildered look.

“Who?”

Franz began to strip off his heavy coat. “Over there. Use it to cover yourself and the boy. Keep him as warm as possible. Talk to him. You could write what I know about medical matters on the back of a calling card but even I can see that if he falls asleep now he might not wake up. I’m going to set off on foot back to my house. I imagine I’ll meet my grooms on the way. I told Bartlett which way I was riding.”

“I…yes, sir. Will you be calling the constable then?”

“No. Which reminds me, hand over my watch and purse in case a constable turns up anyway and searches you. We’ll discuss your situation later. Either that or you can leave the boy here alone and try to make a run for it. You won’t get far on that leg. I don’t think you’re going to do that though. You’ve carried him this far.”

Franz held out his hand and Churchill took out the purse and watch from inside his thin jacket. Franz pocketed them, nodded and set off back to the road. It was cold without his coat and his leg was aching but he walked as briskly as he could.

He had not made it to the top of the hill before the first of his grooms came into view, cantering towards him. Franz stopped, catching his breath. Bartlett, his head groom, reined in beside him.

“Thank God you’re all right, sir. Ruby came in riderless so we thought you’d taken another tumble. Are you…?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Bartlett, though there’ll be a new crop of bruises tomorrow. Stop blathering and listen to me; there’s a crisis and I need you to do as you’re told and not ask questions. I’ll explain later.”

He issued a series of precise orders in the same tone of voice he might have used to his personal secretary, if the blasted man was not currently in France somewhere, probably getting drunk with Franz’s younger son. Bartlett was a reliable man and listened carefully before turning his horse and galloping back towards Southwinds at full pelt. Franz turned and walked more slowly back towards the coppice, then waited under the trees for help to arrive.

It arrived quickly, though by then he was shivering. His coachman drew up the small carriage at the side of the road and one of the grooms came forward with Franz’s riding cloak. Franz drew it around him gratefully.

“This way. I told Bartlett to send a message over to the barracks in Melton Mowbray so we’ll go straight there.”

“He told me, sir. Are you sure? Why the barracks?”

“Because I think an army surgeon might do better with this than my usual physician, who is unlikely to want to get his hands dirty treating these two. I’m not sure I blame him. I suspect my greatcoat might be harbouring lice before the end of the day but we’ll deal with that later.”

“Might not be that much of a problem if they’ve been living out in this weather, sir,” the groom said unexpectedly. “Lice don’t like the cold.”

Franz stared at him in surprise. “Really? The things I am learning today, Fisher. My two new responsibilities are over there under that oak tree.”

Fisher had stopped to stare. “Are you sure you want these two in your carriage, sir? I could order up the gig.”

“And then they could freeze to death on the journey to Melton? Use your brain, Fisher, if that’s possible. Get them in the carriage and I’ll ride with them. If you’re that squeamish, you can ride on the box with Martin.”

“Yes, sir.” Fisher gave Churchill another doubtful look. “You sure you’ll be safe with him? He might be armed.”

“He won’t be armed. Wait there.”

Franz went forward and bent over the boy. To his relief the dark eyes were open again. Churchill had wrapped him in the coat and put both arms about him. As Franz reached him, he started to rise.

“Stay still,” Franz said softly. “Do you still have the gun?”

“I…it’s just there, sir. Under the holly bush.”

“Push it out of sight before you stand up. My grooms carry pistols in case of highwaymen or footpads and if they think I’m in danger they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble, you annoying young bastard. I’m not having you shot now.”

Churchill kicked the gun out of sight and rose very slowly. He had obviously grown stiff with the cold and as he tried to take a step, his leg seemed to give way. Franz caught him before he hit the ground and steadied him.

“How the hell did you learn to walk again on that thing?” he asked.

“It’s hard, Painful. You just have to get on with it.”

Franz nodded. He turned to Fisher.

“Help him into the carriage. He’s very weak and he’s got a wooden leg. Left the real one in Spain.”

Fisher’s eyes widened and his expression cleared. “Oh, a veteran, is he? That explains it. We all thought you’d gone mad, Sir Franz. Alright, Private, hold on to me now. I’ll get your boy in a minute.”

“I’ll bring him,” Franz said. He had not intended to try to carry the child but suddenly he wanted to. Watching as Fisher hoisted Churchill into the carriage and reached to tuck a rug around his shivering body, he tried to imagine how hard it must have been for a man in his condition to carry a child through the frozen countryside in search of food and shelter. That he had brought the boy this far suggested remarkable courage and determination.

Franz bent and scooped up the child, still wrapped in the coat. He stood for a moment, letting himself feel the weight, then eased the boy onto his shoulder. He was appalled at how light he was. It was not difficult to lift him into the carriage at all.

Inside he arranged the boy on the forward seat, tucked more warm rugs around him, then sat next to him ready to catch him if the carriage hit a bad rut in the road. Churchill sat opposite him, looking around with wide eyes. It occurred to Franz that the man had probably never been inside any vehicle more luxurious than a public stage.

The thought made him smile a little. He decided that today was proving very uncomfortable in places but definitely educational. He also realised with surprise that he had stopped thinking about his age; though he suspected that when he woke up tomorrow his bruises might remind him.

Churchill did not speak for a while and Franz’s attention was on the child. He took both cold hands in his gloved ones, trying to share some warmth. The boy was sleepy but the abrupt change in his circumstances seemed to have woken him up a little which Franz hoped was a good sign. He hoped desperately that Dr Welbeck had received his message and would be in barracks when they arrived. He was surprised at how little faith he had in his own doctor when it came to treating the results of poverty and starvation.

Franz climbed down from the carriage in the barracks yard. He was relieved to see the familiar figure of the quartermaster of the second battalion emerging from the administrative building. Captain Henry Clinton was a tall, slim man with ginger hair and a pleasant smile. Neither battalion of the 110^th was currently in barracks but there were always a few companies of new recruits and a collection of sick and wounded men who had been sent home to recover.

Franz had met Clinton a number of times socially which made his task easier. He shook the Captain’s hand warmly.

“I take it you had my note, Clinton?”

“Yes. You were lucky: Dr Welbeck is doing his rounds in the infirmary as we speak. Bring your vagabonds into the office, Sir Franz. It’s warm and there’s a sofa in there for the child. Welbeck can examine them privately when he gets here.” Clinton surveyed him thoughtfully. “In the meantime I think you should have a glass of hot spiced wine by a warm fire. Your man said you took a tumble in the middle of all this.”

Franz pulled a face. “I seem to be making a habit of it recently. Old age, I suspect. I can carry the boy…”

“Let your groom bring him,” Clinton said, gently but firmly. “Come and sit down. As senior officer in barracks I have the privilege of using the General’s parlour when he’s away. I’m enjoying the luxury.”

Franz gave in. He joined Clinton in the parlour, took a chair by the fire and accepted the wine gratefully. Clinton sat opposite, sipped his drink, and studied Franz.

“Would you mind telling me more about what happened, Sir Franz? Where did you find these two? I gather you were out riding.”

Franz told his story, carefully omitting to mention the gun and Churchill’s attempted robbery. As a Justice of the Peace he was perfectly at liberty to quash any attempt to prosecute the man but he was looking to find a place for Churchill where he would no longer feel the need to prey on lone travellers and he wanted Clinton’s sympathy. He merely said that the man had come out from the coppice and startled the mare. It was a plausible tale and Clinton did not question it.

Dr Welbeck appeared and Clinton led him into the office. Franz joined them without waiting for an invitation. He found Churchill sitting rather awkwardly on the big sofa with the child stretched out beside him. He rose as the three men entered and saluted instinctively at the sight of Clinton’s uniform. Clinton acknowledged the salute gravely.

Franz gave the doctor a brief summary of the tale he had told to the quartermaster. He saw Churchill’s eyes widen a little at the omission of the robbery but the man was quick-witted and said nothing. Welbeck thanked Franz with the absent manner of a man whose mind was on his job then shooed both him and Clinton out so that he could examine his new patients.

They sat finishing their wine in the parlour until Welbeck joined them. He accepted a drink and a seat.

“The man is well enough,” he said. “Half-starved of course and that leg of his is rubbed raw the way he’s been walking around on it. Damned fool thing to do, but I don’t suppose he could help it. I asked him why the devil he’s scrounging jobs in taverns when that leg and his previous service entitles him to a pension.”

“I wondered that myself,” Franz admitted. “I’m very ignorant about army pensions but I’m sure my son has spoken about it.”

“Well Private Churchill doesn’t seem to have realised he was entitled to one. He’s been without a regular home since he was discharged from the hospital so I suppose his regiment may have simply lost track of him.”

“They haven’t bloody tried hard enough then,” Clinton said. He sounded angry. “I’d be ashamed to find one of our men tramping the highways on a wooden leg because the regimental paperwork is in chaos. I’m going to write to General van Daan to ask if he feels like having a conversation with whoever commands the 27^th in the field. I’m fairly sure they’re still out there.”

“Do you think he would do so?” Welbeck asked in surprise.

Franz met Clinton’s eyes and saw a gleam of amusement.

“I forgot, you’ve not met him yet, Welbeck. He will take on the task with relish.”

“And bad language,” Franz added.

“Oh good God yes. Appalling language. He once told me he learned it in the Navy as a boy.”

“He didn’t have to adopt it so enthusiastically,” Franz said grimly. “I think it is an excellent idea, Clinton. I’ll write to him about it as well, but it should come formally from within the army. In the meantime, I would like to ensure that Private Churchill has somewhere to stay until he has fully recovered. And afterwards. I have nothing but respect for a man in his desperate situation who took on the care of an orphaned child. He’s due something for that, not just from the army but from the rest of us.”

“I agree,” Clinton said quietly. Franz thought he still looked somewhat amused. “He can remain here. I’m sure we could find him a place in some local charity institution using your considerable influence in the district, Sir Franz but he’s an army man. He’ll feel more comfortable with us. We’re almost empty at the moment apart from three companies of recruits, fully trained and equipped ready to be sent out to France in January once we get the transports arranged. We’ve also got a fever ward with about twenty patients and another ward with about a dozen recovering wounded. That will fill up again in a few weeks; I’ve had a letter from Captain Mackenzie with details of the wounded from these latest actions.”

Clinton glanced uncertainly at Franz, who was perfectly able to interpret his hesitation.

“No need to worry, Clinton. My daughter-in-law is an excellent correspondent and has sent me the reassuring news that my son has still not managed to kill himself, though it sounds as though he made a damned good try this time. He is recuperating however, which means he will be bored and only too happy to spend some time making the lives of the 27^th Foot miserable over their inadequate care of their crippled veterans.”

“That’s what I thought, sir,” Clinton said, relieved. “Given the amount of space we have, we’ve allocated one of the barracks to some of our walking wounded who don’t really have homes or families to go back to. There are about ten of them and they earn their keep helping with cleaning and other jobs around the place. Once he’s recovered a bit, Churchill can join them until his pension is sorted out.”

Franz felt a rush of relief. “Are you sure, Captain? I’m happy to pay for his keep if necessary.”

Clinton smiled. “You could send a few bottles as a contribution to the Christmas festivities, sir. We will be celebrating in the traditional manner of the 110^th which means I’ll be drinking with the enlisted men. It will shock the life out of Private Churchill, mind. They’re very proper in the 27^th. But I wager he’ll get used to it very quickly.”

“I hope he does,” Franz said warmly. “Thank you.”

He drained his wineglass and sat quietly for a moment. Then he looked up at the doctor.

“You haven’t mentioned the boy.”

Welbeck sighed. “I can’t know, Sir Franz. Nobody can. He is severely malnourished and there are signs of a chest complaint but that is hardly surprising. He has spoken a few words, however so we know his name and where he came from. His father was Ned Lawlor, a labourer on Sir John Glossop’s estate. Sir John is in London and the place is run by the old estate manager, a man called Dighton. Lawlor died in the autumn from some fever and Dighton evicted the widow and young Ned. They were trying to make their way to Leicester. For work, I suppose. He can’t remember much apart from her dying on the road and then Churchill picking him up.”

“Does he have the fever?”

“Not that I can tell, but he’s very weak and he’ll need care. Men who have been starving for weeks can’t start eating or drinking normally straight away. I’ve seen men die from gorging themselves too quickly. It happened on the retreat to Corunna. In addition, this poor brat has frostbite on both feet.”

“Will you have to amputate?” Clinton asked.

“I’m going to try to avoid it. He’s very young and they often heal better at this age. Or that cough might turn nasty and he’ll simply fade away. I can’t tell. He’s an orphan so they’d probably take him at St Michael’s House but they’re overrun there with those unable to feed themselves through the winter. The staff are overwhelmed and I doubt they have the time for the nursing he’ll need. I have another idea.”

“Go on,” Franz said.

“I expect you know Mrs Mackenzie, the wife of the first battalion quartermaster. She lives in town with her children and she’s in and out of here all the time. She helps with the nursing when we’re very busy and she’s set up schools for the enlisted men and their families. She’s due to be over tomorrow to see Captain Clinton. I’m going to ask her if she can take young Lawlor.”

Franz was horrified. “You can’t possibly do that, Doctor. I know Mrs  Mackenzie and she has children of her own. With her husband away, you can’t expect her…”

“I don’t expect anything. If she can’t do it, we’ll have to manage him here, at least until we know whether he’s going to live or die. But I’ve worked with Mrs Mackenzie for a few years now. I think I know what she’ll say.”

Franz was silent for a while, realising that the matter had been taken neatly out of his hands. After all, that was why he had brought Churchill here, to men who would understand what had happened to him and hopefully care enough to help.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “I have a feeling you’ve left me little to do here and I should probably be getting back before my household assumes I’ve had yet another accident. They behave as though I’m thoroughly decrepit and ready to expire at any moment.”

Dr Welbeck grinned and rose to shake his hand. “I don’t see any sign of that myself, Sir Franz. It’s been an honour to meet you. Why don’t you go through to see your patients before you go? I’ll send regular updates I promise you. Are you at Southwinds this Christmas?”

“Yes. Alone, for once. My grandchildren have gone to Yorkshire to terrify Sir Matthew Howard’s household and my elder son and his family are spending Christmas in London. He is in the middle of some delicate negotiations which could open up some interesting new business opportunities. I’ll be joining him in the New Year so that I can look over his shoulder and tell him all the things he is doing wrong, but he can have a peaceful Christmas.”

The two men laughed. Franz went through and spoke to Churchill. He thought the man seemed completely bewildered, but not unhappy. Ned Lawlor was sitting up, his hands wrapped round a steaming cup of what looked like some kind of broth. The fact that he was strong enough to hold it felt reassuring to Franz. He ruffled the child’s matted hair and told him to behave as if he had been a healthy six-year-old capable of causing trouble. To his silent satisfaction, Ned managed a little flicker of a smile. It gave Franz hope.

He was alone in the carriage on the journey back to Southwinds which gave him time to think. Back at home, his servants fussed over him. His valet had ordered a bath and set out fresh clothing, whisking away his muddy riding clothes as though he shared his master’s concern about lice. When Franz was dressed he went downstairs to find that wine had been set out beside his favourite chair in the library, along with his book and the latest copy of the Times, which must have arrived when he was out.

Franz sipped his wine and turned the pages of the newspaper to the columns giving news of the army. He read the section through twice, feeling a familiar lift of pride that his son had been mentioned in Lord Wellington’s latest dispatch. Then he set the paper aside and walked through to the terrace at the back of the house. The sun was already beginning to set. It was a cold, clear night and the winter sky was streaked with burnished copper and gold. Franz stood holding on to the stone balustrade. It was so beautiful that he could ignore the chill for a while.

They would be calling him in for dinner soon. He usually dined early when he was at Southwinds, especially when he was on his own. He was glad of it today. Already he could feel an ache in his back and a soreness in his hip from his fall. Still, he was fully mobile and bruises would heal, even though it took rather longer these days.

Unexpectedly, Franz started to laugh. He stood chuckling, watching the final rays of the sinking sun. It was ridiculous how his little adventure had sent his spirits soaring. Many years ago, as a young man in India, he had faced far more perilous situations than an encounter in broad daylight with a half-starved pair of beggars on a highway three miles from home. Nevertheless, the episode had cheered him up enormously. He had spent half-a-year complaining about his family and his household treating him like an old man. He wondered suddenly if that was because he had been behaving like one.

“No more,” he said firmly to the trees and shrubs and spreading lawns of his home. “You’d be laughing at me if you could see me, Georgiana. Huddling away on my own for Christmas as if I’m in my dotage. Go on, love. Have a good laugh. I wish Paul and Anne could be here. I’ve still never danced with my younger son’s wife, and she’s so beautiful and so full of joy. Well that will have to wait. But I think it’s time I introduced myself to her family.”

***

The post-chaise drew up outside the big house at Helton Ridge just after midday. After sending his household into a frenzy of packing and travel arrangements, Franz had spared no expense on his journey: hiring the fastest vehicle with frequent changes of horses. He spent the nights in comfortable inns and arrived in Thorndale two days before Christmas, feeling tired and a little anxious. He had sent a message ahead by a fast courier, so barring accidents his hosts should at least know he was coming. All the same he could not help feeling a little apprehensive in case a long explanation was going to be required.

He need not have worried. The post-boy had barely managed to lower the steps when there was a shriek of excitement. The front door flew open and two children raced down the wide steps and across the drive towards him. Franz held out his arms, careful to brace himself against the carriage to save himself from being knocked over. He found himself engulfed in two enormous hugs and he felt his eyes fill with silly tears of sheer happiness.

“I’m guessing you had my message then,” he said in some relief. “Francis, you’re standing on my foot and you’re as heavy as a young elephant. Move.”

“Sorry. We’re just so pleased to see you,” his grandson responded cheerfully. “Your room is all ready and Grandma Harriet let Grace arrange the flowers by herself, so don’t be surprised if they look like an angry bunch of weeds.”

The fair-haired girl turned frosty blue eyes onto her brother. “You look like an angry bunch of weeds, Francis. If only I had a scythe.”

Franz was laughing. He embraced them both again. “There will be no bloodshed today, Grace. Give me your arm, Francis, and you may take me to meet Sir Matthew and Lady Howard.”

His host and hostess awaited him in a high-ceilinged hallway. The house was more modern than Southwinds but it was elegantly furnished. Franz shook hands, thanked them and apologised for his earlier refusal and his abrupt change of mind. Lady Howard brushed his apology aside laughingly.

“We were just happy to receive your message. The children have been so excited and my husband and I have been longing to meet you.”

“I should have come before,” Franz said. “Habit is a strange thing sometimes.”

He stopped suddenly, his eye caught by the huge fireplace where an enormous log burned.

“Is that a Yule Log?” he asked.

Lady Howard laughed. “It is. We’ve never had one before, but the children wrote to us about it. I understand you had intended to revive the custom if they’d been at home this Christmas so we decided to start a custom of our own. I’m glad we did. The estate workers loved it.”

Franz walked towards the fire, staring into the flames. He had proposed to his wife before a slow-burning Yule Log more than forty years ago. He could not remember the last time he had felt this close to her. He turned back to Lady Howard, smiling. She smiled back.

“A glass of sherry to warm you up after your journey, Sir Franz?” Sir Matthew said. “Or would you like to go up to the nursery to greet the rest of your grandchildren first, while they’re unpacking your bags?”

“The children. Please.”

Lady Howard laughed and slipped her arm through his. Franz remembered suddenly that this was not Sir Matthew’s first marriage which meant she was Anne’s stepmother. He thought that she must have been very influential on her youngest stepchild because she had a warmth and understanding that reminded him of Anne. Briefly Franz’s thoughts drifted to Churchill and his young protégé and he wondered how they were getting on. He had received a message from Mrs Mackenzie on the morning of his departure and the prognosis sounded hopeful.

Franz walked beside his hostess towards the nursery. He could hear Grace and Francis already there, excitedly proclaiming his arrival. It sounded like Bedlam. He decided that he had made a very good decision about how to spend Christmas.

The post Daylight Robbery appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

The Reluctant Debutante and other stories are taking a break over Christmas but will return much refreshed in 2026…

This is a general update for my readers on the state of play with some of my early books and some news that change is afoot. Don’t panic it’s nothing bad.

In addition to reading the Peninsular War Saga and the Manxman series, a number of you have also read my earlier books, in particular my two Regency romances. Both these are linked to the main series of books and to the short stories.

In between researching and writing new books, I’ve taken time out to re-edit some of those early books. Back then I didn’t have a ‘proper’ editor and I’ve known for a while that even some of the earlier books in the series would benefit from Heather’s eagle eye on them. That work is ongoing.

Having recently taken a long look at the two Regencies, I’ve made the decision to temporarily take them down from Amazon while we bring them up to the same editorial standard as my more recent books. I’m particularly keen to do this with The Reluctant Debutante as the romantic hero in that one is none other than Giles Fenwick, who has become an increasingly central character in the Peninsular War Saga.

There’s nothing wrong with Giles’ love story but having re-read it with a critical eye, I think I can make it a lot better. Nothing about the plot will change, but I believe that the new edition will be better edited, better written and that the Earl of Rockcliffe will sound a lot more like Giles. When I wrote that book back in around 2016, I didn’t really know Giles at all. I’d like to do him justice.

The rewrites shouldn’t take too long and once I’m ready for the relaunch I’ll let everybody know. There’ll be a free promotion followed by a period at a lower price for anybody who originally bought the book but would like to read the new version. For anybody who wouldn’t, it won’t make any difference to your understanding of the timeline. The story won’t change at all.

This is quite a useful thing to do over the Christmas period when there’s a lot going on and I’m deep in researching Manxman four. I’m also hoping to get the second volume of collected short stories out into the world before Christmas so I won’t be idle.

The books I’ll be taking down in addition to the Reluctant Debutante are my other Regency A Regrettable Reputation, which features Nicholas Witham and my two early standalone novels. I’ve always intended to replace the covers on A Respectable Woman and A Marcher Lord to bring them into line with my other covers and this will be a great opportunity to do so.

I’m looking forward to reissuing the books once they’ve been properly edited and I know I can be proud of them. Major Fenwick and the others deserve nothing less.

Thanks as always for your support and for reading and loving the books. The reviews so far for An Inexorable Invasion have been amazing. I’m so grateful.

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An Inexorable Invasion – and so it begins is just a very small taster of what is to come in book ten of the Peninsular War Saga. Those of my readers who have spent the past eight years getting to know Major-General van Daan can probably make a rough guess at what happens next…

Chapter One

The forward pickets were relieved at dusk and were almost blue with cold by then; blowing on numb fingers to keep them nimble enough to load and shoot a musket if necessary. The changeover was usually accompanied by cheerful greetings and a good deal of banter as the departing sentries described how miserable the posting was going to be, while their replacements scoffed at them for being softer than the camp women who would probably make a better job of guarding the outposts.

For weeks, the Light Division picket line had been close enough to the French to cause a few skirmishes. It had also led to a good deal of fraternisation. This was particularly bad among the German hussars who often accompanied them because they had quickly discovered that the opposing French cavalry vidette was also provided by a German regiment. The opposing sets of cavalrymen spent much of each day in friendly conversation but this evening brought an unpleasant shock. Along with the relieving pickets, provided by a company of the 110^th Light Infantry and a dozen cavalrymen from the 9^th Dragoon Guards rode a tall figure on a big roan gelding.

The officer’s uniform was hidden by a dark greatcoat but every one of the pickets recognised the commander of the third brigade of the Light Division. He was accompanied by his ADC, a slim young man in a grey cloak riding a neat bay mare. Both reined in, staring in surprise at the scene before them. They had arrived just in time to find the two opposing cavalry videttes comparing the best fishing spots on the banks of the River Nive while the pickets from the 43^rd Light Infantry were bartering with half a dozen French infantrymen. They were offering the French packets of tea and what looked like wrapped packages of tack biscuits in return for French brandy and business was brisk.

There was a long, agonised silence as the two groups stared at each other.

Published on November 10th 2025. Order your copy here.

The post An Inexorable Invasion – and so it begins appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

It is December 1813.

The great powers of Europe are meeting to decide whether to seek a negotiated peace or a decisive victory over the Emperor Napoleon. Major-General Paul van Daan and his brigade are beginning to look forward to the end of the long war but the fighting is not over yet.

Now fully established on French soil, Wellington’s army faces Marshal Soult’s defeated troops once again in three days of fierce combat on the banks of the River Nive.

For the first time in his career Paul is faced with not one but two colonels fleeing the field with their battalions, leaving General Hill’s corps in desperate peril. Ensign Laurence Fox is still adjusting to his new post as Paul’s ADC when he is called upon to make a vital decision.

Major Giles Fenwick receives news from home which threatens to distract him from his assignment working with the Royal Navy to build a bridge over the River Adour.

Lord Wellington is beset by unwanted visitors to headquarters and is infuriated by a determined attempt by a party of Royalists to force him to declare for their cause. Anne van Daan has to leave the surgeons’ tents for a while and use her diplomatic skills to diffuse the situation.

With winter quarters over, Wellington’s army marches further into France towards the town of Orthez and another encounter with Soult’s battered army.

The Book

I’m always excited to release a new volume in the Peninsular War Saga but this one is also rather poignant. I was halfway through writing this when I realised just how close to the end of the war we are. For the first time my characters are beginning to look ahead. They’re probably afraid to hope too much at the beginning of this book but by the end it’s becoming clear that things are about to change.

It’s easy to throw a 21st Century mantle over the whole period at this point and imagine everybody being really excited that the war may well be ending and for some of my characters that is undoubtedly true. Paul and Anne are longing to go home to their children and extended families and there are men returning to wives and fiancées. Looking at biographical details of various officers in 1814 it’s clear there was a spate of weddings. Not every officer went home of course.  Men like Harry Smith and Edward Pakenham were almost immediately sent to America where the war of 1812 was still dragging on. 

For some of the enlisted men the end of the war brought new problems and difficult decisions. After years marching through Portugal and Spain, many had formed relationships with local women, and had children. Some would probably have had no hesitation in leaving these families behind but others were devastated. Some decided not to do so at all.

We have all that to come in book eleven, before marching with Wellington again on the field at Waterloo in book twelve. In the meantime I hope you enjoy this account of the adventures of the third brigade of the Light Division at the Nive and at Orthez. Once again I’ve taken a few liberties with history and geography and I’ve listed these in my author’s note at the end. Otherwise I’ve tried to keep to the facts as far as they’re known while still keeping Paul and his men busy. 

Many of you are also fans of the legendary Bernard Cornwell and his Sharpe series. You’ll probably have already read his version of some of the events in this book in Sharpe’s Storm. It’s the first time I’ve accidentally collided in time with Sharpe and once I got over the sheer panic of people reading my book back to back with his I’ve quite enjoyed the process. At one point Sharpe and Paul were very close on the same battlefield but they didn’t run into each other which is a shame.

I’m now returning to finish my Age of Sail book for Sapere and will then move on to Manxman four. I’ve been putting that one off because of the sheer volume of research but I’ve now decided that I’ll be bringing the two series together for book eleven and I can’t do that without first writing about Hugh and Durrell’s adventures in Northern Spain in 1812.

In the meantime there will be the second collection of short stories coming out in December. It’s called Winter Quarters and will once again bring together some of my previously published free short stories along with one brand new story just for this collection.

Thanks to all my readers for your loyalty, enthusiasm and really dodgy sense of humour which causes you to laugh at all my jokes. I hope you enjoy the book.

The post An Inexorable Invasion: Book Ten of the Peninsular War Saga appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

It’s been a while since I did one of these but for three days only, starting tomorrow, An Unconventional Officer, the first book of the Peninsular War Saga, is free on Amazon kindle. If anybody who hasn’t already read it would enjoy a story of love and war in Wellington’s army, now’s your chance. The promotion is from 19-21 September 2025. I hope you enjoy it.

The post An Unconventional Officer – free promotion appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

It’s early on Sunday morning and the rest of my household is sound asleep. I should be too, but arthritic hip number two woke me at two thirty this morning and hasn’t really settled down since. Number one, which was replaced in January is mostly well behaved these days although the scar sometimes objects if I sleep on that side all night.

It’s a grey morning with on and off drizzling rain and a breeze which feels oddly warm. I can’t really get my head around that. I went outside with my first cup of tea to sit on the bench at the back of the garden and expected to feel cold before I finished it. The sight of trees and shrubs dancing in the wind and leaves beginning to swirl down onto the lawn says autumn to me but this mild breeze speaks more of summer.

The dogs enjoy an early cuppa on the patio. They waited patiently while I caught up on some work on the laptop, clearly wondering why I was awake and typing in the middle of the night but the moment I put the kettle on they were waiting hopefully by the back door ready to join me on a morning inspection of the garden. It was pretty much the same as during their evening inspection but they have to check all the same.

I’ve just left the latest instalment of the Peninsular War Saga with my editor along with the next volume of short stories and the notes for a talk I’m giving next week. It feels very satisfying to move work off my desk and on to hers, even if it’s only for a short while. Fairly soon chapters will start winging their way back to me for corrections. At the moment though, it’s quite a pleasant limbo.

I wish I was better at knowing what to do with that time. I’d like to spend it in the garden; I love gardening but it’s a funny time of year. The weather is unpredictable and as much as I love autumn it’s not the same as the excitement of sowing and planting and watching new flowers grow in spring.

I’ve spent a few days getting my website up to date. I was honestly embarrassed at how behind I’d got with it but I’ve decided to blame that on a hip replacement and a new book. I’ve also finally committed to uploading regular posts onto Substack. I joined ages ago as part of my ongoing quest to find a new way of connecting to readers. One of the things I’ve never managed to do in the eight years since I started publishing is establish any kind of mailing list, despite being told regularly how essential it is for an author.

I think I was put off the whole mailing list experience by my fear of spamming my poor readers. I have a Facebook page and a Twitter / X account which for years worked very well at getting the word out to people but although I still get a fair bit of engagement on Facebook, Twitter is not what it once was. I’ve experimented with BlueSky and Threads but neither of them really did what I wanted and I found them terminally irritating. Instagram remains the ultimate mystery to me although I think that might be because I’m old.

I like Substack so far because it’s easy just to transfer blog posts over from my website. So easy in fact, that I’m going to start transferring my short stories over gradually in the hope that they’ll reach a new audience. More to the point, it’s possible for readers to subscribe if they want, to keep up to date with new books, short stories and general ramblings from the world of Writing with Labradors.

So if you want to keep up with my news, please subscribe here. I’ll try not to spam you with endless links to BUY MY BOOK, though there will be book related news. But there are just as likely to be pictures of Labradors, flowers in the garden and my new obsession, Colin the fledgeling hooded crow and his family who seem to have moved into my garden.

Thanks for reading.

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Welcome to the French Lieutenant, my Christmas story for 2024. As always it’s freely available on my website, so please share as much as you like.

This is not the first short story I’ve written about a French prisoner of war. In an Impossible Attachment back in 2018, Lieutenant Damien Cavel managed to escape before he is marched onto the transport to England. Raoul Delon is not as lucky in this story. Or perhaps he is.

I read a lot about the arrangements for captured French officers in the various parole towns around England and Scotland. The rules were the same in every town but the application of them seems to have varied widely. The parole agents were often open to bribery and some officers broke their parole and escaped back to France. Curfew and boundaries were strictly enforced in many places and very lax in others. I suspect that in towns where the prisoners gave no trouble and got on with the locals, they were give a lot more latitude than in towns where there were drunken brawls and resentment. Some officers brought their wives with them. Others found wives among the local girls. Some chose not to go back to France at the end of the war.

It only recently occurred to me that my fictional industrial town of Thorndale was exactly the kind of place designated as a parole town. It gave me the opportunity to revisit a storyline which began in the very first book in the Peninsular War Saga as well as to introduce some new characters. There are also one or two links to a Formidable Frontier, my most recent book and to the Kittiwake, my Halloween story.

In the winter of 1813-14 there is still no peace in Europe, but in a small Yorkshire town there’s a sense of reconciliation and looking towards the future which feels right for Christmas.

I’m looking forward to moving on with my new Age of Sail series and with book four of the Manxman series in 2025. In the meantime I wish all my readers, old and new, a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As always, your enjoyment of these books and stories makes it all worthwhile. I hope you enjoy the French Lieutenant. Thank you so much.

The French Lieutenant

Yorkshire, November 1813

Heads turned as he left the narrow house at the end of the street and made his cautious way over the slippery cobblestones towards the baker’s shop. The stones would have been hard enough to manage in worn boots which let in water, but a marked limp and the need to use a cane for support added to the probability that he would slip over. Lieutenant Raoul Delon had been making this journey every morning for the past three weeks, apart from Sundays when the baker’s was closed. He wondered if the curious townspeople were disappointed that so far they had not seen him sprawled in a puddle unable to get up.

He was not the only Frenchman currently billeted in this little English town but he was the most recent and therefore the most interesting. Raoul had arrived on a transport after long appalling weeks in an army hospital which he was still surprised to have survived. His leg, broken by a shot while leading his men on the heights of the pass at Maya, would probably have been amputated if there had been enough surgeons available. As it was he had been left in an isolated farmhouse with a resentful Basque couple and a promise that help would come.

Help had eventually arrived, not from his compatriots but from a contingent of English troops on their way to make a new assault on the pass. By then Raoul was weak from blood loss, shivering with fever and starving, because his unwilling hosts refused to feed him more than scraps. The English had carried him down the mountain and into an army hospital. Raoul felt as though he had been transported into a dimension of hell.

Neglect had probably saved his leg and a naturally tough constitution had saved his life. When eventually he was marched aboard a prison transport to England, Raoul was no longer sure how much he cared, but he learned to take each day as it came. At least here he had shelter and rations and, for the first time in years, felt safe from either being blown to pieces on a battlefield or slaughtered in an ambush by Spanish partisans. Even fever, which killed more men in Bonaparte’s army than battle wounds, was less likely here.

Mr Farnham the baker greeted him with his usual surly nod and waited for his order. Raoul stated his requirements, keeping it brief. During his first week in Thorndale, he had attempted to make polite conversation with the townspeople. His English was quite good but he quickly realised that the thick dialect spoken in this town was nothing like the language he had been taught at school and practiced among his fellow officers. He knew they understood him perfectly well, but it seemed to amuse them to pretend they could not and he often could not understand them. He had given up now and kept his conversation as simple as his shopping requirements. Farnham wrapped the bread and hot pasty and watched him leave.

Around the corner was a butcher and a row of market stalls selling fresh goods. There was a full market once a week, but these local stalls were out every day. Several of them were run by women and Raoul found them more friendly than their menfolk, though no easier to understand. His cooking facilities were limited so he subsisted mostly off cooked meat and preserved fish, bread and cheese. Once a week he squandered some of his allowance on a hearty stew at the Red Lion with the dozen other French officers allocated to this particular parole town and enjoyed several glasses of wine over cards or chess. Otherwise he drank ale, ate herring and remembered wistfully the fresh food grown on his family farm in the Loire Valley.

Raoul distributed his various packages between the big pockets of his old greatcoat and limped back up the hill towards his billet, which was a chilly room above a stationer’s shop. Mr Thorpe, the proprietor, was unmarried and managed with a maid and a manservant who also worked in the shop. The kitchen was old and the big range never lit, so cooking took place over the fire. Thorpe was perfectly happy for his guest to use it but Raoul always felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the two servants, so managed as far as he could over the smaller fire in his room. Coal was expensive but there were extensive forested areas within ten minutes walk of the edge of town and years in the army had made him an expert forager.

It was growing colder, with a sharp wind which cut easily through his shabby coat. The paroled officers received a weekly allowance which was paid by the town parole agent. Being new, Raoul had only just begun to receive his and had so far received no money from home, though he was hoping that his brother, who ran the family’s small estate, would be able to arrange it soon. He was saving for new clothing but in the meantime he would manage. This Yorkshire market town might feel inhospitable at times but it was nothing compared to bleak, freezing nights in the Pyrenees.

The cold made him quicken his pace which proved his downfall. Setting down his cane he felt it slide away from him and as he tried not to follow it, his bad leg went the other way. He fell heavily on his side and lay winded, feeling pain shooting down his leg. It panicked him. The break had healed but he had no idea if the bone was permanently damaged and whether it might break again from a simple fall. For a while he made no attempt to get up, but he knew he was going to have to. Unless he was lucky enough to be spotted by one of his fellow prisoners he did not think any of the locals would come to his aid.

He had barely begun to move however when a shadow fell over him and a man’s voice said:

“Stay still, now. If you get up too quickly you’ll be over again, lame as you are. Catch your breath. Here, you boy! Get yourself over and take his other arm. And your friend can take his cane. Bring him into Mr Arnold’s office.

Raoul opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Until he had rested his leg for a while he did not think there was any way he would make it back to his billet, let alone up the stairs to the second floor. He allowed his rescuer to help him up three steps and across a wide, tiled hallway into what looked like a waiting room. There was an old-fashioned sofa against one wall and Raoul sank onto it gratefully.

“My thanks, sir, and your pardon for being so troublesome,” he said, careful to speak slowly and clearly. “I will be better soon.”

The other man studied him for a moment then turned to take Raoul’s cane from one of the two boys. He handed a coin to each of them and waved dismissal, just as a second man bustled into the room.

“Now then, Mr Carlyon, what’s this? Is the poor gentleman hurt? A nasty fall and if I’d not been standing at the window, I’d never have seen it. Mrs Cobb? Where are you? Make some tea would you? And get Smith to bring the burgundy and glasses down here. I’d invite you up sir, but you shouldn’t try the stairs yet. Leg paining you is it? I’ve seen you struggle past a few times and wondered. Glad to have finally met you. Arnold’s the name. Henry Arnold, lawyer and man of business. And this gentleman who was ahead of me down the stairs to help you up is Mr Benjamin Carlyon, our former MP who lives nearby.”

Raoul’s head was spinning a little but he was relieved that he was easily able to understand Mr Arnold’s accent. He shook the older man’s proffered hand and that of Mr Carlyon with real gratitude.

“Thank you both, sirs. I am sorry to have been so much trouble. My name is Delon – Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28^th Ligne. I was wounded at Maya and captured soon afterwards. My leg has been recovering slowly but I am not yet steady on my feet.”

“Of course you’re not. Damned stupid of Johnson to shove you right at the top of old Thorpe’s building in my opinion. What’s your room like? Do they feed you? Can’t help noticing you’ve been doing your own marketing most days. Here, Smith. Take Lieutenant Delon’s coat and be careful with it. He’s got his supper in the pockets.”

Raoul felt himself blush. “I am well enough there, sir,” he said quickly. “Some of the officers stay next to the Red Lion and have a mess arrangement there but I would rather not feel obliged.”

Mr Carlyon looked surprisingly sympathetic. The servant had set down the madeira and he went to pour a glass for Raoul.

“Don’t get on with your fellow officers, eh?”

“I do, sir. We meet regularly. Only I have only recently arrived and do not know them that well yet. Also they are…” He paused, searching for the right word. “They are thankful for nothing. Me, I remember what I have just come from and am thankful for what I now have.”

Arnold fixed him with a look then accepted a wine glass from Carlyon and drank appreciatively.

“By God, you’ve got it there, lad. Whiny lot, aren’t they? My wife makes a point of inviting them to dinner every few weeks. Trying to make them feel welcome. They sit round our table moaning in French to each other like they think we’re too stupid to understand them. My wife speaks it well and I can get by.”

Raoul went even more red. “I am sorry for their manners, sir. I am surprised you invite them back.”

“We feel sorry for them. I’ve a nephew in the navy. Midshipman aboard the Venerable. And Carlyon here has a son out with Wellington. We’ve said before that we’d like to think some French family would be good to them if they were taken prisoner.”

“I imagine you would also like to think that your son and your nephew would show good manners,” Raoul said. His ability to converse with these two men was beginning to restore his confidence in his English. Carlyon grinned.

“Well there’s nothing wrong with your manners, lad, that’s for sure. I think some of the officers here regret not being sent to a livelier town for parole. There’s not many of you: only fourteen now you’ve arrived. There are hundreds in some of the bigger towns and cities. They’ve built their own communities. It’s boring here for your countrymen and none of them have brought wives with them. Are you married, sir?”

Raoul shook his head. “No. I am glad of it. It is enough that my mother worries.”

“Poor lady. Drink up. Are you feeling any better?”

Raoul shifted his leg and winced. “A little. I think I can make it back to my billet…”

“Until you take a tumble down those bloody stairs and break your neck,” Arnold said scathingly. “It won’t do. What do you think, Carlyon?”

“I’d be happy to take him but it wouldn’t be suitable just now. I hadn’t got around to telling you, but we have a guest staying with us – a young lady.”

“I see.” Arnold sounded doubtful. Raoul was beginning to feel like a stray dog being passed around until a sympathetic owner could be found. He did not like the feeling, but he sensed genuine kindness in these men and having received nothing of the sort for a long time he appreciated their intentions. “I suppose that might be awkward. Relation of some kind? Your wife’s perhaps?”

“Not at all. If it were my niece she’d enjoy the company,” Carlyon said with grim amusement. “We didn’t know the girl personally but her brother served with Simon.”

“Served?”

“Yes,” Carlyon said. Raoul understood what the man was trying to say and felt a little shiver of sadness for the unknown woman. He had been tactful so far but he could not let this pass.

“You mean that her brother was killed in battle by one of my countrymen, sir?”

Carlyon looked flustered. “Well yes, sir. Though there’s no need for you to take it to heart. I can see you’re the kind who would. He was doing his duty same as you were. The thing is, it’s very recent and she’s been left completely alone. There was some relative living with her; they’ve a house in Hay-on-Wye. A Welsh family, very respectable.”

“I feel much sadness for her,” Raoul said. “Too many men have died on both sides.”

“How did she come to be staying with you?” Arnold asked with interest. “What age is she? When she’s feeling more the thing I’ll get my wife to call. Introduce her to my daughter. Louisa’s a kind soul.”

“It would be the very thing for her,” Carlyon said warmly. “Give her a week or two to settle in. My wife is delighted. She misses Simon, it’s good for her to have a young person to fuss over again. Miss Lloyd is twenty and a very nice girl. The aunt she’s been living with died. Left her on her own in their big old house with a few servants. Lloyd served in the 110^th and was a good friend of my Simon’s. It seems he’d only just heard of his aunt’s death  before he was killed in this latest action. He chose Simon to take care of his affairs if anything happened. Nothing formal of course: there’s a lawyer. But he left a letter for the girl and Simon sold his horses and the like and sent his personal effects home to her. Simon was worried about her; she’s young to be left alone in the world. He’s a responsible lad, is Simon. Not like…anyway, he wrote to us about it and nothing would do for my wife but to write to the girl to invite her to stay with us for a time.”

“I hope it’s a success.”

“I think it will be. She makes no demands. She has her own money and will inherit what was her brother’s. She just needed some company and we’re happy to have her. But that’s why I can’t offer Lieutenant Delon here my hospitality just now.”

“Of course,” Raoul said quickly. “She cannot possibly wish to see a man in this uniform. Please do not trouble yourself any more, gentlemen. I am very well at Mr Thorpe’s and…”

“Nay, Arnold here is right. You shouldn’t be climbing up those stairs every day and you shouldn’t be living off cold food because Thorpe is such an old clutch-fist that he won’t light his kitchen stove.”

Raoul looked startled. Carlyon smiled. “Servants meet at the market, lad. They talk. You can’t come to me and Arnold’s house has worse stairs than Thorpe’s. They’d need a hoist to get you to bed at night. I’ll need to think about it.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Benjamin. There’s an obvious solution. We need to speak to Howard.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Raoul had no idea what it was about but he felt it. Finally Carlyon said:

“No point. Helton Ridge is even further out of the parole area than my house. Mr Johnson wouldn’t allow it.”

“Rubbish. Johnson is flexible enough with the rules when someone bribes him enough,” Arnold said cynically. “And we all know whose pocket he lives in. Look, the Lieutenant can stay with us for one night. At least he’ll get a decent meal and Louisa can practice her French on him. I’ll take him over now and then I’ll ride out to Helton Ridge. If Howard can get permission for them to attend his receptions and Christmas ball well out of curfew hours, he can damned well intervene to make sure this lad has a safe billet.”

Raoul was horrified. “Sir, I cannot impose on you this way. It is illegal. It could end with you getting into terrible trouble and I might be accused of breaking my parole and be sent to a prison hulk. And I do not think I would survive that.”

The two Englishmen exchanged amused glances. They must both have been at least sixty and Raoul sensed a benevolent conspiracy between two very old friends.

“I’d go if I could,” Carlyon said apologetically.

“I know. Though I wish you would. It’s long past time.”

“I can’t, Arnold. Not after what happened.”

“Aye, I understand. I just think you underestimate Howard. He’s a good man. Let’s get those documents signed before I forget that’s what we were doing, and then I’ll take Lieutenant Delon over to my lady.”

Raoul made an attempt to rise and Arnold moved forward and put his hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Stay there. Mrs Cobb will bring you some tea, if you can stomach it after a good madeira. You’re not well, lad. You’re as skinny as a rake, as pale as a ghost and about as mobile as a fish washed up on Whitby Beach. Sit you there for a while and rest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to meet you ever since I’ve watched you struggle up that damned hill every day. Don’t worry about anything. Whatever we do will be perfectly legal and signed off by the parole agent. Sir Matthew Howard will see to that.”

***

There was a thick frost on the ground and the household was barely stirring when Gwynneth Lloyd fastened her cloak and slipped quietly out of the side door into the gardens of Glebe House. She had arrived in Thorndale in a downpour a week earlier; so cold and tired that she had noticed nothing about her destination other than that the house was comfortable with all modern conveniences. Her hostess was motherly and kind, and there was a fire lit in her room.

Since then, the weather had been unpredictable with fierce stormy days succeeded by brilliant blue skies and crisp cold air. Gwen sensed that this would be one of those days. She was an enthusiastic walker and was used to a good deal of independence but she had quickly discovered that her hostess tended to fuss. Mrs Carlyon had never had a daughter and Gwen suspected she felt the lack keenly. It made her an attentive but over-protective hostess so Gwen was learning to slip out when the house was quiet.

She had cried with relief when Mrs Carlyon’s invitation arrived. The news of Davy’s death, coming only months after the death of her elderly Aunt Cerys, had left her grieving and bewildered. She realised that she had spent the past few years in a constant state of waiting, believing his cheerful promises that once the war was over and he was home, they would make some plans.

“No need to rush into marriage with some local sheep farmer, Gwen love. You’re still young and Da left enough for a respectable dowry for you. Bless them both, they never saw further than the end of the valley but it’s different for me, and it should be different for you as well. It’s a fine regiment, the 110^th. You’ll do well enough with Aunt Cerys for a year or two and then I’ll be home and we’ll rent the house out; you can come up to Leicestershire and I’ll introduce you to my friends. You’ll be settled in no time, I promise you. Just look at you. You’re growing into something of a beauty.”

She had trusted him implicitly and been grateful for his determination that she should not be left behind as he stepped out into a wider world. Some brothers would have accepted the first offer he received just to get her off his hands and there had been several as soon as she reached seventeen. They were from men she had known as boys, and still thought of as such, and she had refused them kindly but with relief. She had been given the gift of time and choice and it never occurred to her that he would not be there to honour his promise.

Gwen had been angry and grieving during those first weeks but also paralysed with indecision. She had no idea what to do now. Her brother’s lawyer, who had also served her father, had given her a very encouraging report of her financial affairs and suggested that she allow him to advertise for a hired companion to lend her respectability and to support her through her mourning period. Gwen did not want a stranger in the house but was already aware of a stirring of interest, a rise in the number of morning calls and invitations to tea from those local families whose sons she had already rejected. She was beginning to wonder if such a marriage was the only choice left to her but the surprising invitation from Mr and Mrs Carlyon had offered, if not a solution, certainly a reprieve.

She had studied the letter with caution, but before she had the chance to decide, a courier arrived from Spain bringing Davy’s personal possessions, the money from the sale of his horses and campaign goods and a letter he had written to Gwen in case of his death. There was also a letter from the wife of Davy’s commanding officer who had employed the courier. Both made Gwen cry all over again, but it confirmed that the Carlyons were respectable people who wanted only to help. Travel arrangements were made and Gwen set off for Yorkshire. After only a week, she knew she had found the refuge she needed and was immensely grateful to those who had worked to bring her here.

The Carlyons lived in a compact house built during the reign of Queen Anne. It was not particularly large but was elegant and well-maintained, and several generations of the family had been raised there. There was a small estate with a home farm and a number of long term tenancies and the place had an air of comfortable prosperity. Mr Carlyon had served for many years as the MP for the Thorndale constituency but had given up his seat several years earlier. He and his wife had raised two sons to manhood, both of whom chose careers in the army. The elder had died during the early years of the war in Portugal and Mrs Carlyon seemed to find it hard to speak of her loss. The younger, who had been Davy’s friend, was still with Wellington’s army which had just crossed the border into France for the first time.

Walking always helped Gwen think. She struck out across the frosty lawns, skirted the orchard and joined a narrow track which took her up a steep slope known locally as Gallows Hill. She had not troubled to ask the origin of the story. It was not hard to guess. The hill had a spectacular view of the town of Thorndale and the surrounding moors and dales, sparkling in the winter sunlight.

Yorkshire was lovely, even in this bleak weather, and it gave Gwen a curious sense of hope. She loved the soaring mountains and deep valleys of her Welsh homeland but she had always yearned to see other places while at the same time dreading that she would be disappointed. She was not. Beauty existed beyond the confines of her girlhood home and she realised, even in the depths of her grief for Davy and her Aunt Cerys, that she had not lost her curiosity about the world beyond her limited experience.

She stood at the top of the hill, breathing in the cold air and enjoying the glittering fields below her. The frost would be gone soon, and sheep and cattle would be out enjoying their winter grazing in the lower pastures. She found herself trying to imagine the steep mountain slope where her brother had fought and died. When he wrote to her, telling her stories of the places he had visited and the battles he had fought, she remembered feeling a fierce envy along with her anxiety for his safety. He had travelled so far from their rural upbringing. It had never really occurred to her that he might never come home.

Back down at the house the servants were busy about their work and there was the smell of bacon and new baked bread. Gwen went upstairs to change, then made her way down to the cosy parlour where breakfast was served. She found Mr Carlyon present, though his wife had not yet appeared.

“Out early this morning, Miss Lloyd. Nice bright morning, but cold.”

Gwen smiled and made a cheerful response. She liked both the Carlyons and was deeply grateful for their generosity to a young woman they did not know. She had heard Davy talk warmly about the bonds of friendship created during army service. She had not expected it to extend to his family and was touched at the care taken on her behalf.

They chatted about the weather until Mrs Carlyon joined them. Gwen saw that she had several letters in her hand but she did not open them, merely set them beside her plate. Gwen made a guess. Buttering her bread, she said lightly:

“Do you have a letter from Captain Carlyon, ma’am?”

The older woman coloured a little. “Well yes, my dear. But I can wait until…”

“Please don’t. After all your kindness – and his to my brother – I should like to know that he is well.”

Mrs Carlyon’s hand hovered over the letter. “I don’t wish to upset you.”

“It won’t, ma’am. The war is still going on and I cannot avoid all mention of it. Davy would have something to say to me if I tried.”

Her hostess beamed at her and broke the seal of the letter, opening a sheet which was covered with writing so small that Gwen deduced that her son was trying to make the most of the space. Mrs Carlyon gave a little groan and peered closely while sipping her tea.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed in surprise. “He writes from France, Benjamin. They are properly established upon French soil. How strange after so long. They have very comfortable billets and are hoping for a peaceful Christmas.”

Gwen ate her breakfast and let the conversation drift past her. She found it curiously soothing. It brought back the excitement of getting letters from Davy, who had never been a particularly regular correspondent. When he did write however he made her laugh with stories from the regiment, descriptions of the places he had seen and a running commentary about the misadventures of his commanding officer’s dog which frequently made her laugh out loud. It was bitter-sweet to think of the regiment carrying on without him but at the same time Gwen was glad of the news. It made her feel closer to him.

She realised Mrs Carlyon had stopped reading aloud and was casting a doubtful glance at her husband. Firmly she said:

“Thank you, ma’am. I enjoyed hearing that. It brings back happy memories of my brother. Is there any further news?”

“Well…only a mention of the matter of the French prisoners. I believe we mentioned to you that Thorndale is a parole town, though only designated one last year as they were running out of space in one or two of the other towns. We have but a dozen or so junior officers and they give us no trouble. It seems that arrangements are being made for the parole boundary to be extended so that Helton Ridge can be included. Mrs van Daan’s family live there, you know, my dear. Lady Howard has been hospitable to the officers. I wonder if she is thinking of offering accommodation to some of them. It might be suitable, especially if any of the officers have wives joining them. They have a lot of space. Do you know the Van Daans?”

“Not personally,” Gwen said. “General van Daan wrote to me to tell me about Davy’s death of course and then his wife wrote me such a kind letter afterwards. I did not know the prisoners were permitted to bring their wives with them.”

“The officers are, certainly,” Carlyon said. “Not that any of them have in Thorndale. They’re mostly juniors and unmarried. I’m glad that they’re moving the parole boundary. It should make it easier for Arnold to talk Sir Matthew into taking that young Frenchman who had such a bad fall. I told you about him, my dear.”

“Of course. I am sure it will all work out for the best. Sir Matthew is always so helpful,” Mrs Carlyon said brightly. “Now for today. I need to go to the drapers and then I have the intention of calling on Mrs Noah Battersley to discuss the Christmas boxes for the poor. If you would like to accompany me Miss Lloyd, you would be very welcome.”

Gwen did not hesitate. She was being invited to what would undoubtedly be a rather boring social event but it would be better than seclusion. Now that the worst shock of her grief had eased a little, she realised she had become very isolated and she was a naturally social person.

“I would be happy to accompany you, ma’am, and to help however I can. You mentioned a young French officer who was injured. What happened?”

“Nothing to speak of, Miss Lloyd,” Carlyon said briskly. “The young man arrived recently, wounded and very lame. He had a bad fall in town yesterday and his billet is unsuitable for his recovery. Mr Arnold though that Sir Matthew Howard might be able to help out. Now, would you like some more eggs?”

***

Raoul was overawed upon his arrival at Helton Ridge. He had visited, and even been billeted, in chateaux and palaces during his army service but most of them were old and in poor repair. This house had been built during the previous century and still retained the elegant classical lines of its Georgian origins but inside it had been brought fully up to date. It was not a museum but a busy family home.

He was relieved when the housekeeper showed him to a room in a ground floor annexe overlooking the rose garden. A fire had been lit against the cold November afternoon and the room looked cosy and inviting.

“It’s not that you’re not welcome in the house, sir, it’s just that her Ladyship thought this would be easier for you, without the stairs.”

“Of course,” Raoul said gratefully.

“We use this wing for one or two elderly guests who need to be on the ground floor,” Mrs Hibbert said chattily. “And my lady used to put Mr George and Mr Arthur’s friends in here when they came to visit sometimes, because there was no telling the hour they’d come in and she wouldn’t have the young ladies woken up.”

“Young ladies?” Raoul said, faintly alarmed.

“Yes, sir. Miss Anne isn’t here; she’s out with her husband in Spain or France or wherever they are now. He’s a major-general. Miss Katherine – Mrs Gisbourne I should say – has been living in London but she was sadly widowed earlier this year so she’ll be home for the Christmas season. And I hope it’s not all too much for her, because we’ll be having those children this year, with Mrs Patience van Daan needing peace and quiet with the new baby. So it will be very lively.”

Raoul was completely bewildered by this stream of information about people he had never heard of. He tried to guess what this nice woman wanted to hear.

“I will stay out of your way and be no trouble. Please assure them of that, madame.”

The housekeeper gave a sniff. “I wouldn’t blame you for trying, sir, it’s like a menagerie when they all get together and Mr George will be up from London as well, once Parliament is adjourned for the holidays. But they won’t let you sit over here on your own and mope. My lady always says a soldier is a soldier, no matter who he’s fought for and that the French gentlemen had no choice about it half the time. That’s why she has those parties for the paroled officers every few weeks. You’ll be able to attend now that you’re close by. For today, Lady Howard asks that you join the family for dinner. Five o’clock, since we keep country hours when there’s no guests. She asked me to tell you there’s no need to change; they’re very informal. She’ll talk about the other arrangements then. I’ll send the boy over to collect you and show you the way.”

He was relieved to discover that Lady Howard was as good as her word. He was shown into a pleasant salon which was set up as a family dining room. His hostess, an attractive woman in her fifties came forward to greet him and introduced him to Sir Matthew, who was probably ten years older than her, and to her stepson Mr Arthur Howard.

“Have some wine, Lieutenant Delon,” Sir Matthew said cheerfully. “Cold afternoon, isn’t it? Gets dark so early now. Are you settled in? Have everything you need?”

“I am very comfortable, sir. This is so kind of you, madame. Is it…forgive me, but does Mr Johnson know of this change? The parole agent. I have to register with him once a week to receive my allowance. On Wednesday. I do not wish him to think I am breaking my parole.”

“I’ve spoken to Johnson,” Sir Matthew said briefly. “And I’d already written to the Transport Board. I made a formal request that the parole boundaries be extended to the far side of my estate. It makes perfect sense since it’s bounded by the River Thorne on that side and I doubt any of you are going to try and swim that in full flood on a cold November day.”

“I am certainly not,” Raoul said. Arthur Howard gave a splutter of laughter.

“Wise man. Don’t worry about it, Delon. We’ll be included in the parole boundaries. My father has managed it.”

“With the help of my daughter’s very well-connected father-in-law,” Sir Matthew said somewhat drily. “There will be no difficulty, Delon. How are you feeling? Arnold tells me you had a bad fall.”

Dinner was informal, with dishes left for them to serve themselves. Raoul had expected to feel horribly out of place, but he decided that although the Howards were obviously wealthier than his family, they were probably not far removed in social terms. Howard was a textile manufacturer with several profitable factories around the town and a lucrative contract providing woollen goods to the army. Raoul wondered how much his daughter’s marriage to a major-general had helped with that, but he knew that was how things were done, in France as well as England.

It was the best meal Raoul had eaten since arriving in Thorndale and he hoped he had not seemed greedy. Fortunately Lady Howard appeared delighted with his enjoyment of her hospitality. He had the impression that the Howards liked entertaining guests and loved having a house full of people and he wondered if that had worked in his favour.

At the end of the meal, his hostess left the gentlemen to their port and Howard passed him a glass and gave a contented sigh.

“I am becoming old and fat,” he said, with the air of a man trying to sound regretful and failing. “It is a shame that I’m enjoying it too much to stop. I’m glad you were able to join us, Delon. Has my wife spoken to you about meals?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“We serve breakfast in this room. It’s informal; dishes laid out on the sideboard. We also dine in here unless we’ve other dinner guests and I hope you’ll join us. When it’s more than family, it will depend on who they are. Most will welcome you; a few won’t. I know which is which and my wife will let you know. On those days you can have a tray in your room.”

“Sir, this is more kindness than I deserve.”

“The French are our enemy. You’re our guest, Delon. As long as you keep to your parole and don’t do anything stupid, we’re happy to have you.  Don’t be an idiot and spoil it.”

“I am not an idiot, sir. I will not abuse your hospitality.”

Howard smiled. “Good man. Tell me about the Pyrenees. My daughter is out there, you know, doing God knows what in an army hospital. Terrifying the locals probably. I feel sorry for them. Where were you when you were wounded?”

After the meal Raoul rose to return to his room but found himself waylaid by Arthur Howard who towed him off to an impressive library to drink more port.

“I’m glad you’re here. With my brother in London and the girls off and married, I’ve been the youngest person in the house for a few years. Apart from when my sister’s brats turn up, in which case I’d rather be somewhere else.”

Raoul grinned. “I have two nephews. I remember the noise they make.”

“Good, I’ll have an ally.” Howard laughed and relented. “They’re all right really. She’s got two of her own, but they’re just babies. The little girl from his first wife is very sweet. It’s the oldest two that are a handful. My stepmother loves having them though. The rest of us have let her down badly in the matter of grandchildren so far. George and I aren’t married yet and poor Kate never had any. I noticed by the way that you were careful what you said about campaigning in front of my stepmother. Appreciate it. She worries about my sister constantly.”

“I will continue to be so, though I do not suppose your sister’s husband allows her anywhere near the battlefield.”

To his surprise, Howard laughed aloud. “You don’t know my sister, Delon. I doubt the poor man stands a chance. Drink up and get yourself to bed. You look exhausted. Bloody stupid to put a lame man in old Thorpe’s place.”

“It was not ideal,” Raoul admitted. “But I remind myself that I am here as a prisoner, not a guest.”

“You’re a paroled officer not a criminal. Surely the point is to stop you fighting against us, not to punish you?”

Raoul smiled. “That is a good way to look at it. Thank you, sir. I am grateful to your family and also to Mr Arnold and Mr Carlyon. I hope I will see them to thank them properly.”

“You’ll see Arnold in and out all the time. He’s our lawyer. You won’t see the Carlyons here I’m afraid. Their choice, not ours.”

Raoul remembered suddenly the odd conversation between Arnold and Carlyon. “There is a quarrel?”

“Not on our part. It’s old history but it’s not really mine to share.”

Raoul took the hint and took himself off to bed gratefully. He understood the other man’s reticence but he decided he would call on Carlyon as soon as he could manage it to thank him personally for his help. It was the least he could do given this extraordinary improvement in his living arrangements.

***

The visit to Mrs Battersley gave Gwen a new interest. She discovered that the ladies of Thorndale were enthusiastic at collecting donations for poor families to help them through the winter but less willing to visit their dwellings to distribute the clothing and bedding. Gwen, who had been accustomed to help her aunt in the village, had no such qualms and brushed aside Mrs Carlyon’s anxiety. Driven by one of Mr Carlyon’s grooms she sallied forth each morning with neatly organised boxes accompanied by woven bags of bread.

“We’ve given up sending them potatoes and vegetables my dear, though we always grow too many. A lot of those cottages don’t have good cooking facilities and even those who do don’t know how to use them.”

Gwen doubted the truth of that but knew better than to argue. She had found good housewives in the grim rows of miners cottages in her Welsh valley, whose only problem was having no food to cook if their man was injured or laid off and she suspected it would be the same in this manufacturing town.

The workers cottages varied considerably. Several of the mill owners had begun to build housing for their workers. Thorndale was a small market town being rapidly overtaken by the expanding textile mills which were being built to make use of the abundance of rivers and streams to power them. The local workers were accustomed to spinning and weaving on a small scale in their cottages and were often reluctant to take work in the factories where they were expected to work long hours behind locked gates.

Instead, the mill owners were beginning to bring in workers from elsewhere. Some were from the land, unemployed hands driven to seek other work in hard times. Others were from Ireland, fleeing from desperate poverty. There were also children brought in from orphanages and workhouses. These were housed in hastily constructed accommodation close to the mills. Gwen had seen the conditions some of the young mine workers lived in back in Wales and was beginning to feel a strong urge to have a look at these improvised dormitories but she was new here and must feel her way carefully.

To house their imported workforce the mill owners built rows of terraced housing. These varied a good deal in quality. Some were reasonably well-built although small and dark. Others looked as though they had been thrown together from left-over building materials. They were over-crowded, with many families taking in single men as lodgers to earn extra income. In one of them, belonging to the Battersley cotton mills, Gwen found a family of six living in their single ground floor room with four Irishman living upstairs. The filth was appalling and Mrs Swinford tried hard to prevent her visitor from entering the house.

Gwen went in anyway. She accepted the offer of a cup of weak black tea and sat on a hard chair, lifting the youngest child, who was about two, onto her lap without flinching at the state of her. Mrs Swinford was visibly pregnant and looked exhausted and defeated. She knew very well that the house was a mess and the lodgers were not ideal but she had been laid off from her job at the mill as her pregnancy advanced and they were struggling to manage on her husband’s pay.

“Our oldest girl is ten now and is working up at Battersley’s piecening – that’s where they repair broken threads under the looms. Children are good for that, ma’am. They’re small, like.”

Gwen tried not to flinch at how dangerous that probably was. She was not easily shocked, knowing what children endured in the mines. She asked questions about the various children and their ages and when she was back outside she found her pencil and note tablets to jot down the information. At her next meeting with Mrs Battersley’s charity committee, she would make a point of requesting donations of warm children’s clothing and try hard not to point out that if Battersley paid his workers a proper wage they would not be needed. Her aunt, a notable campaigner, had taught her to choose her battles wisely.

The gig had just arrived at the end of the lane which led up to Glebe House when a man came into view, walking in the same direction. He was tall and slim, dressed in a shabby greatcoat and battered shako. He was limping badly and walked with the help of a sturdy cane but he moved surprisingly quickly. Dobson slowed the horse and the man turned at the sound. He took in the groom with a lady seated on the box beside him and stepped aside to let them pass, removing his hat and bowing politely. Gwen felt a little shock as she realised that the uniform jacket under the coat was blue and that this must be one of the French prisoners.

Dobson gave a nod of acknowledgement and flicked the reins. Gwen felt unexpectedly confused. The man was clearly making his way up to the house; there was nothing else on this road apart from a few farms some miles on, and her instinct was to offer a lame visitor a lift. At the same time she was painfully aware that he was French. He was an enemy.

As the gig passed him, he bowed again then looked up directly at her. Gwen was surprised at how young he was; probably no more than a few years older than her. Dark, curly hair framed a distinctive face with pronounced cheekbones and dark-blue eyes. He looked nothing like a soldier and certainly nothing like the marauding monsters which had haunted her dreams these past weeks, cutting down her brother over and over. He looked like a rather weary schoolboy.

“Dobson, wait.”

The groom hauled on the reins with a muttered complaint. His attitude suggested that a female who had dragged him round all the worst slums in Thorndale was exactly the kind of female to pick up a French prisoner. Gwen decided to her surprise that he was right. She tried a tentative smile and it came out quite well.

“Are you going up to visit Mr Carlyon, sir?” she asked.

“I am, mademoiselle. Do you know if he is at home?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid. I’ve been out all morning. It’s at least another mile though and the track is uneven. Why don’t you climb up and we’ll give you a lift?”

He hesitated. Gwen could not decide if it was because he thought he should refuse or because he was unable to scramble up. Before she could decide, Dobson made a snorting noise and reached out a hand. The Frenchman made it up onto the box without mishap and replaced his hat.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. It is very kind. I should introduce myself. Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28^th Ligne.”

“I am Miss Lloyd. I am staying as a guest of the Carlyons at present.”

She saw immediately that her words meant something to him. He looked a little startled and then dropped his gaze. She considered the matter and suddenly understood.

“I collect you have heard about me, sir.”

He looked up quickly. “Only that Mr Carlyon had a guest, mademoiselle. And that you were recently bereaved.”

She indicated her dark cloak. “My aunt and then my brother. It has been difficult. I was grateful for this invitation.”

“Are the Carlyons related to you?”

“No. My brother served with their son, Captain Simon Carlyon.”

She could see that he was genuinely upset and was surprised at her desire to reassure him but she could not think of what to say. He was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. She realised he wore no gloves and thought he must be freezing. He looked up.

“I am so sorry about your brother, mademoiselle. There is nothing more that I can say. So many brave men have died.”

She felt a little rush of sympathy. “On both sides, sir. If you had not been lucky, your family might have endured the same. Please don’t upset yourself. I should not blame every Frenchman I meet for what happened. The fault lies with those whose policies created this war.”

His lips twisted into an attempt at a wry smile. “And for those who will not end it. There is certainly a Frenchman – or a Corsican – at fault for that.”

“It isn’t you though.”

The smile widened and she blinked a little at how much it changed his serious face. “Thank you for that.”

They had turned through the gates of Glebe House and as they drew up on the carriage drive, one of the footmen emerged to help Gwen down from the gig. He performed the same office for the Frenchman, looking rather surprised.

“Jackson, this is Lieutenant Delon who has come to call on Mr Carlyon. Is he at home?”

“He’s over at Glebe Farm, ma’am, but if the gentleman would care to wait I don’t think he’ll be more than twenty minutes.”

Gwen shot a glance at the Frenchman. He gave a little smile. “I will wait if it is permitted. It is a long walk back. I do not wish to be troublesome though. Perhaps I could walk in the gardens a little.”

She smiled. “There isn’t much to see at this time of year, sir, but I’ll walk with you. Not before we find you some gloves though. Your hands are turning blue. Jackson, could you ask Mr Carlyon’s man if…”

“I will see what I can do, ma’am,” the footman said rigidly.

They walked through the half-bare shrubbery and between neatly weeded beds, bare for winter. Tree branches soared starkly against a blue winter sky and Gwen threw back her head to watch some magpies swooping overhead before diving down in search of food in the hedgerows. They walked down to the coppice and she asked him questions about his home and his family. He asked more tentatively about Wales and about Davy. Talking about him to a man who had been an officer and understood something about the life her brother must have led was surprisingly comforting.

Very brief enquiries told her that by the time Davy died, this man had already been a prisoner in an army hospital, unsure if he would keep his leg or even survive. She was glad to know that it could not have been him giving the order for the musket volley which had killed her brother. She liked this diffident young man and rather wished that the Carlyons had not been so careful of her grief and had asked him to stay with them.

She asked rather shyly if he would mind if she practiced her French. He appeared delighted and they talked awkwardly for a while. At her request he gently corrected her pronunciation and they shared laughter at some of her efforts. He told her of his problems understanding the Yorkshire accent and laughed again when she admitted that at times she had the same problem.

They saw Carlyon in the distance, riding back towards the house and turned to stroll back. He glanced at her.

“I have a rather strange question, Miss Lloyd. May I?”

“I’ll help if I can,” she said cautiously.

“It is about Mr Carlyon and Sir Matthew Howard. I have met them both now and they seem like good men. Both have connections to the army. Sir Matthew’s son-in-law and Mr Carlyon’s son. I think they know each other.”

“They do. Mrs van Daan, who is Sir Matthew’s daughter, wrote to me, suggesting that I accept this invitation. She was so kind.”

“And yet two such men are not friends. More than that; they do not meet at all. When it was suggested that my billet be changed, Mr Arnold approached Sir Matthew. It was clear that for some reason, Mr Carlyon could not. And Mr Arthur Howard said the same thing. It makes me a little sad. Have you any idea why?”

“No,” Gwen said. “I’ve only been here for two weeks, sir, but it seems very strange. It’s clear that Major-General van Daan and his wife are on very good terms with Captain Carlyon. I cannot imagine what could have come between their seniors.”

“Forgive me. It is not my business, I know. I am just here to thank Mr Carlyon for his intervention and his kindness.”

Gwen hesitated. “I’m glad you came,” she said abruptly. “I realise I’ve been worried about running into any of the French gentlemen on parole here. It was silly. I won’t care about it now. I’m glad we met.”

“So am I, Miss Lloyd.”

“I’m not sure if it will help. But if you really want to know, I can probably find out.”

He looked surprised. “But how?”

She grinned. “I have become acquainted with several ladies who busy themselves on charitable matters. One of them has a daughter, Miss Lucy Battersley who has invited me to take tea with her on Tuesday. She is unmarried and loves to gossip.”

He stared at her, arrested. “Truly? How will I know…?”

“I’ll send you a note and we will arrange to meet. Up at the coppice perhaps.”

He gave her his startling smile and she basked in it unashamedly for a moment.

“The exercise is good for my leg,” he assured her. “But is this acceptable?”

“Well my brother was my legal guardian, though I am almost of age. Wait, I shall ask him.” Gwen put her head on one side and considered for a moment, than nodded firmly. “He says it is perfectly acceptable for us to meet in the good cause of helping his friend’s family, sir.”

She saw unexpected mischief dance in his eyes. “I am happy to accept this from a fellow officer and your former guardian, Miss Lloyd. I will wait for your letter with pleasure.”

***

They met on a grey morning, with dark clouds threatening rain. The Carlyons had become used to her eccentric habit of walking in all weathers and apart from recommending that she wear her warmest cloak and not go too far, they made no objection.

Raoul had been surprised two days earlier by the arrival of a box from home. It had contained both money and replacement clothing, including his dress jacket and an undamaged hat. His mother had also supplied new boots and a warm coat which was a considerable improvement on his old greatcoat. He had visited the barber in town and thought he saw a look of surprise and possibly even approval on Miss Lloyd’s face as she approached. He bowed, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of gloves.

“Please return them to Mr Carlyon, ma’am. With my grateful thanks.”

He saw her smile a little at his use of the word ‘ma’am’ which she had taught him during their previous meeting. She took the gloves and slipped them into her cloak pocket.

“I see you are rather better equipped, Lieutenant.”

“My family finally sent my possessions from home along with some money. I have been able to repay several small debts to my fellow officers. And when I went for my weekly report to Mr Johnson, the parole agent, he positively fawned over me in his approval of my new accommodation. Apparently Lady Howard has written to ask if it would be acceptable to invite his daughter to her Christmas ball this season. I am given to understand that this is a considerable social honour.”

Gwen chuckled. “I believe so. Do you…will you be attending, sir? It is several weeks away, I know.”

“I will, ma’am. I had not expected it, but Lady Howard tells me that all the French officers will be invited.” He studied her, not sure how to ask. She gave a little shrug.

“I will certainly not be able to dance in full mourning, sir. As to the invitation, I don’t know. I imagine it will be issued. It is issued every year but not accepted.”

“I think you have discovered why.”

“Yes. It is a very sad story. Miss Lucy Battersley was only too happy to share the gossip, as I thought she would be. A little too happy to be honest. I was rather uncomfortable. Shall we walk as we talk? It will be warmer.”

Raoul fell into step beside her. He was walking more easily with so much practice and she was good at keeping pace with him.

“You know that Sir Matthew has two daughters? They are not Lady Howard’s; she is his second wife, though I believe she raised them as her own.”

“Yes. Mr Arthur Howard has spoken of them. The elder is returning home soon; she was recently widowed. The younger is in France with her husband.”

“Yes. Anne. She is the same age as Miss Battersley and she tells me they were apparently friends. I’m not so sure about that. It seems that her brother, Mr Samson Battersley had hopes of marrying Anne. She was the local beauty and very much courted.”

“I have seen her portrait,” Raoul said quietly. “She was apparently only fourteen but she was already very lovely.”

“I think Miss Battersley may have been a little jealous. Or perhaps disappointed on her brother’s behalf. Anyway, it was expected that Anne Howard would make a splendid marriage. Instead she created a scandal of some kind with an officer of the 115^th foot. His name was Robert Carlyon.”

Raoul felt a little lurch of his stomach. He turned to stare at her. “Their eldest son?”

“Yes. I don’t know exactly what happened. Miss Battersley was far too delicate to explain properly. She may not even know. Whatever it was, it led to a very hasty marriage and the young couple were posted down to the south coast somewhere and then on to Portugal with Sir Arthur Wellesley. Lord Wellington as he is now.”

“I see. You think the two families quarrelled because the Howards did not approve of the match?”

She shook her head. “It was rather worse than that. Much of this did not emerge until much later of course because they were abroad and Anne never told them in her letters. It appears that Robert Carlyon treated his wife very badly. Beat her in fact. Eventually some of his fellow officers intervened and Carlyon deserted. He returned later on and tried to kill her. He was shot dead by another officer, in defence of her.”

“I thought he was killed in battle,” Raoul said, appalled.

“I think for the sake of his family it is seldom talked of. They are well respected locally. I think it broke their hearts.”

“Of course it did. How dreadful. So that is why the Howards do not…”

“It isn’t the Howards,” Gwen said. “Apparently they have tried several times to mend matters. It seems that when Simon Carlyon arrived in Spain he was welcomed as her brother-in-law and is very close to the Van Daans. Which I know to be true from Davy’s letters. I think the Carlyons are too ashamed.”

“That is terrible,” Raoul said. He was surprised at how upset he was. He had only known both families for a few weeks but his sense that they should have been friends and allies had not been misplaced. “All because of the dreadful behaviour of one man. How could a brute like that come from such good people?”

“That’s what makes it so much the worse,” Gwen said soberly. “I’m sorry. I can see this has upset you. It upset me too.”

“I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“Perhaps there is.”

Raoul paused, staring. He had a sudden sense that this girl had been in search of more than just gossip.

“I do not understand.”

She smiled, took a deep breath and summoned her French. “I would like to help them.”

“How?” he replied in the same language.

“I am not sure. But all they really need is to talk.”

Raoul stared at her with a faint feeling of terror, as though he was about to get drawn into a situation that he might regret in a strange country and an unfamiliar language. She looked back at him seriously. She was a very pretty girl with a fine boned face and intelligent dark eyes, fringed with ridiculously long lashes. She could easily have been French; a Celtic look, from Brittany perhaps. He thought suddenly that he would be proud to take her home to his mother and introduce her to his brother and sister-in-law. The thought made his face warm a little but he did not think she had noticed.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet. One should never make a plan too quickly. I have an idea about the Christmas ball, but I need to think about it. It is very cold out here. Why don’t we walk up to the house? You shall present Mr Carlyon with his gloves and we will have a hot drink and get warm. You might want to mention how happily you are settled with the Howards and how grateful you are.”

“Will that help?”

“It definitely won’t hurt. And we will be warm. May I take your arm?”

He held it out with mute delight and escorted her up to the house. Part of him wondered what he had walked into. The other part had never been so happy in his life.

***

Christmas in Yorkshire brought a sudden flood of invitations which rather bewildered Raoul. He found it hard to shake the feeling that, as a prisoner, he should be held under more difficult conditions. Instead he was living in a comfortable home, on perfectly friendly terms with his hosts and their neighbours and being included in a round of receptions, dinners and dances along with his fellow officers. It made him feel immensely guilty about his men, presumably still living in miserable winter quarters on the Spanish border, awaiting Lord Wellington’s next attack.

He was delighted to meet Gwen Lloyd at a concert in Thorndale’s brand new Assembly Rooms. He had attended with several other French officers all of whom seemed to be on good terms with the local gentry. Some of them had been in Thorndale for almost a year and had been cautiously accepted into the community.

Miss Lloyd was with Mrs Carlyon and Raoul was immediately aware of the presence of Lady Howard in the front row with several of her friends. She rose and came towards him immediately.

“If I had known you would be here, Lieutenant, I would have offered you a lift in my carriage.”

“I thank you but there was no need, ma’am. I dined first with my fellow officers at the Red Lion.”

“Well you shall certainly come back with me. I understand Mr Johnson has given special leave to be out beyond curfew for this evening but I would rather you weren’t walking that far once it’s over. Thorndale is generally very safe but it is always possible that one or two of our less salubrious locals might decide to take exception to a Frenchman out alone.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I would be grateful.”

Raoul was aware of a hovering presence behind him. He turned to find Miss Lloyd smiling at him in a friendly manner. She had put off her black mourning for the occasion and was dressed in a soft lavender gown with black lace at the cuffs and hem. The lighter colour suited her and she looked very pretty. She held out her hand and he took it and bowed over it.

“It is good to see you Miss Lloyd. I did not know you would be here.”

“I persuaded Mrs Carlyon to accompany me. I love music; I always sang in the chapel choir and I have not attended a concert for so long. I think she was a little anxious about the propriety of it but I do not think anybody will mind.”

“Very right,” Lady Howard said approvingly. “I always like to see a young lady taking a sensible view of the mourning period. Would you introduce us, Lieutenant?”

Raoul did so and Lady Howard bestowed a warm smile on Gwen.

“I was so sorry to hear about your brother, Miss Lloyd. My daughter wrote to me about him. She and the General were very upset. I know how highly they valued him.”

“She wrote to me too, ma’am. She was very kind.”

“I have been intending to call, so I’m very glad to have run into you like this. I’ve been hearing very good things of you from Mrs Battersley. She tells me you’ve been wonderfully helpful with her relief committee and have taken on all kinds of tasks that it is often hard to get people to do.”

Miss Lloyd blushed a little. “I like to be busy, ma’am. My aunt was very active within the mining community before she died. I’m not particularly squeamish.”

 “I admire that, Miss Lloyd. I realise this is going to be a difficult time of year for you. You must miss your brother and your aunt dreadfully and you can hardly throw yourself into the enjoyment of the season while you are in mourning. All the same, I hope I may persuade you to have tea with me one day. And as you have expressed interest in some of our working practices, I would like to give you a tour of what we are doing up at our mill. Sir Matthew and I spent some time visiting Mr Arkwright down at Cromford and Mr Greg near Manchester to see how they have set up their workers’ accommodation. They have given us some very good ideas.”

Miss Lloyd looked surprised but Raoul could see the quickening of interest in her dark eyes.

“If it is not too much trouble ma’am, I would be delighted.”

“Excellent. I don’t want to steal you away from Mrs Carlyon if she has need of you so I’ll speak to her to find out when it would be convenient. I just hope it doesn’t snow. It comes down so abruptly here.”

“Are you from Yorkshire, ma’am?”

“No. My family were from Northamptonshire originally, but I’ve lived here for many years. You’re from Wales of course. I don’t know it well, though I spent some time in Shrewsbury just across the border.”

The conversation ranged happily over places visited and enjoyed until a bell summoned the audience to their seats. Gwen returned to her seat beside Mrs Carlyon, shooting a mischievous glance over her shoulder at Raoul. He took his seat wondering if this meeting had been purely by chance or if Gwen had somehow engineered the whole thing, though he could not see how.

The music was charming: a visiting quartet from York and a very good soprano. Raoul enjoyed it but found himself glancing over towards the Carlyon party. Once or twice the girl looked back, flashing him a quick smile.

“I see you have set up a flirtation, Delon,” his neighbour whispered in French. “She is very attractive, but in mourning? A young widow?”

Raoul flushed. “It is not a flirtation, Gerard. Just an acquaintance. And she lost her brother in a recent action at La Rhune.”

“Ah, I see. Not the right time for a romance with a Frenchman then.”

Raoul thought regretfully that he was right. It was rather a pity because he had taken a great liking to the oddly outspoken girl. He said nothing more. The paroled officers had little to do but drink and gossip and he knew that if he attempted to deny his interest it would pique their curiosity. Better to ignore their speculation and let it die a natural death.

At the end of the concert, wine and sweet biscuits were served in the adjoining reception room. Raoul slipped away from his friends while they were distracted by the champagne and went to find Gwen. Her approving smile told him he had done the right thing. She was talking to a tall, shy young woman who was introduced as Lady Carew, recently married to Sir Julian, the new squire. Raoul watched her draw the other girl into conversation and thought, with a sudden rush of feeling, how much Gwen Lloyd seemed to care about other people. He was not sure he had come across anybody quite like her before and he found himself hoping desperately that she would choose to extend her visit to the Carlyons beyond the new year.

Beside her, Mrs Carlyon seemed uncomfortable although she was trying hard to conceal it. Raoul suspected he knew why. Lady Howard had been standing on the other side of the room talking to some friends but as he watched, she turned and began to make her way towards them. He felt Mrs Carlyon stiffen.

“It is growing late,” she said, almost under her breath. “I wonder if we should leave, dear Miss Lloyd. Perhaps I can find a servant to go for the carriage.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Gwen said brightly. “Would you like me to find somebody?”

“No no, I will go…”

“I’ll be right back,” Gwen said firmly. She smiled an apology at Lady Carew and disappeared into the crowd just as Lady Howard appeared. She looked a little surprised. Raoul bowed.

“Miss Lloyd has just gone to send a servant for the carriage, ma’am. She will return shortly.”

Lady Howard’s face cleared. “Of course. Lady Carew, how are you? Mrs Carlyon, I’m glad to have caught you. I have a favour to ask you about your young guest. What a lovely girl she is.”

Mrs Carlyon was caught and she knew it. Raoul wondered how many social occasions she had missed in her effort to avoid just such a meeting. She was a polite woman though, and pulled herself together.

“She is a delight,” she said warmly. “I did not realise you had met, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant Delon introduced us, but I have been hearing about her efforts with the relief committee from Mrs Battersley all week. I wanted to speak to you about that. Miss Lloyd has expressed interest in visiting the mill. Not the weaving sheds, though I suppose she might also want to see those, but the workers housing and the apprentice house. The school might be of interest as well.”

“Oh…of course. It sounds very interesting.”

“I wanted to make sure she has no engagements with you before I arrange a day.”

Mrs Carlyon shook her head with a faint smile. “No. We do not go out much. I am glad to see her getting out a little. Her bereavement means that she cannot attend parties of course…”

“Is that what she wants?” Lady Howard asked. “Forgive me but although I realise she cannot dance, there seems no reason why she cannot attend. I had hoped to invite her to our Christmas ball, and perhaps to dinner one evening.”

Mrs Carlyon stiffened. “I…I do not know, ma’am. She is not under our guardianship in any way, she is just our guest.”

“A brother is not the same as a husband, though I have no doubt she mourns him sincerely,” Lady Howard said persuasively. “But for such a young woman, I cannot think it right for her to shut herself away.”

“I do not wish it either, ma’am. It is just that we do not go out much ourselves.”

Raoul could hear the desperation in Mrs Carlyon’s voice and he felt sorry for her. He was trying to think of something to say that would help, but Lady Howard was first.

“I know this is difficult for you,” she said very gently. “There is no need for a chaperone to visit the mill or to dine with us informally. Lieutenant Delon has agreed to be our escort at the mill and will be present at dinner with several other young people. Miss Lucy Battersley will be there and my daughter Katherine will be home by then and I think will be delighted to make Miss Lloyd’s acquaintance.”

Raoul was startled out of his sympathy. He managed to cover up his surprise and look as though he had known of these plans for his entertainment all along. It occurred to him suddenly that Miss Lloyd might not be the only one making plans. He shot her ladyship a quick glance and saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“Of course,” Mrs Carlyon said. “Nothing could be more suitable.”

“But she cannot attend a full ball without a chaperone, ma’am, even if she is not to dance.”

“I am not sure…”

“Please come.”

There was something stark about the words that seemed to silence Mrs Carlyon. Raoul was uneasily aware that people around them had begun to stare as though recognising the significance of this meeting and this conversation.

Mrs Carlyon took a deep breath and made a final protest. “Lady Howard, I do not think my husband will be comfortable…”

“Of course he will not, the silly man,” Lady Howard said crisply. “Neither will Sir Matthew. This has gone on for too long and they are men. Their pride will not allow them to make the first move. We had better do it now, ma’am, because I have it on excellent authority that this war is drawing to a close. If my younger daughter arrives home and finds that I am not on visiting terms with Simon’s mother, I will not answer for the consequences.”

Raoul realised with horror that there were tears standing in the other woman’s eyes.

“I remember her as such a lovely girl,” she whispered. “I feel so ashamed.”

Words came to Raoul unexpectedly. He reached out and took her hand. “I understand, ma’am. When I see the sadness in Miss Lloyd’s eyes for her brother, I am ashamed to be French. But she tells me that is foolish. I did not kill him and I could not have stopped his death. And two months later, his army did their best to kill me. I am not responsible for what my compatriots did that day.”

“And you are not responsible for your son, ma’am,” Lady Howard said gently. “Thank you, Lieutenant. What a wise young man you are. Take Mrs Carlyon’s arm if you will and we shall go in search of Miss Lloyd. By now she will have been waylaid by some enterprising gentleman who is gazing into her eyes and calculating how long her mourning must last. We cannot have that.”

***

Gwen drifted through the Christmas season in a confusing mixture of sadness and happiness. It had been several years since she had spent Christmas with Davy but she was assailed by memories of their younger days, with the valley under deep snow drifts; walking to chapel with their parents or going out with the shepherds to search for lost sheep. It had been a happy childhood and she realised that she had looked forward to his return to restore a sense of belonging.

That hope had gone and she mourned it. On the other hand she was unexpectedly content where she was. Her days became suddenly busy. She toured the model village at Helton Mill, admiring the sturdy well-built cottages and the brand new schoolhouse. She admitted that Sir Matthew Howard seemed to take better care of his workforce than most of the other mill owners she had encountered, though she wondered how much he was motivated by profit rather than philanthropy. Healthy workers could put in more hours and were less likely to leave for other work.

Lady Howard clearly invested a great deal of her time in the various projects, including education for both workers and children. Gwen spent several Sunday afternoons listening to children reading in the schoolhouse and tried not to notice broad hints about further assistance which implied a far longer stay in Thorndale than she had intended.

She went to dinner several times at Helton Ridge and was introduced to a number of other young ladies whom she liked rather more than Lucy Battersley, including Sir Matthew’s elder daughter Katherine, still in deep mourning for her husband. She met most of the other French officers and was grateful that her bereaved state prevented them from flirting with her as outrageously as they did with the other girls. She sat beside Raoul Delon at dinner and enjoyed his quiet conversation. At other times she enjoyed simply being silent with him. She tried hard to remind herself that after Christmas she must consider returning home and picking up the threads of her old life.

Gwen was a little anxious that Mrs Carlyon would be upset at the amount of time she was spending with the Howards but her hostess appeared perfectly content. Two days after the concert, Sir Matthew Howard rode up the drive to Glebe House to make a morning call and the following day Mr Carlyon returned the courtesy. Gwen had no idea what they spoke about but there was no more talk of not attending the Howard Christmas ball.

Gwen gave in to vanity and ordered a new gown for the ball. She could not dance but she was delighted with the modest silvery-grey silk with a short train, which was simple enough to be considered half-mourning yet made the most of her dark colouring. She was pleasantly conscious of male eyes following her through the ballroom but she was aware that she was searching for one gentleman. There were a number of dark-blue uniforms present but Lieutenant Delon’s tall slender figure was easy to spot.

He seemed to sense her approach and turned. She saw his eyes widen a little and then he came forward, took her hand and bowed over it with more formality than she was used to from him. It made her blush a little and when he straightened and looked at her, the smile in his eyes made her face even warmer.

“Miss Lloyd. You look very lovely.”

The direct compliment confused her for a moment but she managed to rally.

“It is clear you have been practicing your English on the ladies of Thorndale, sir. You are looking extremely smart yourself.”

“Thank you. I made a visit to the tailor. I thought it was time I stopped looking like a prisoner.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You have never looked that way to me, sir.”

“I have felt it. It seems to have been decided though that such matters as curfew and parole boundaries are to be forgotten until after the Christmas season.”

Gwen looked across the room. The dancers were forming up for the first set and she could see Miss Anthea Johnson, the parole agent’s daughter, partnered with Captain Gerard, her eyes shining and her face flushed with happiness.

“I think the arrangement has been very satisfactory for both sides, sir.”

“I hope that is nothing more than a flirtation,” Raoul said consideringly, following her gaze. “Her father does not really like the French. He will be furious if it becomes more serious.”

“Goodness, do you think it might? Is Captain Gerard not married?”

“No, he is unattached. I believe he is quite taken with Miss Battersley but her Papa does not like the idea.”

Gwen could not help laughing. “I do not intend to act as matchmaker to your friends, Lieutenant. I think we have done quite well enough patching up an old quarrel between neighbours.”

“I think that was your doing rather than mine,” Raoul said quietly. He stopped a passing waiter and handed her a glass of champagne.

Gwen looked up at him. She could not decide if a good haircut and new clothing made him look older or more like a charming boy. Either way it suited him.

“According to Lady Howard it was you who found the words to break through Mrs Carlyon’s reserve, Lieutenant. She told me what you said. It was exactly the right thing.”

It was his turn to blush. “I did not make any clever speeches, ma’am. I just said what I believed.”

“You spoke from the heart and she listened. I know you don’t want to be thanked, but please let me do so just once. I went to her dressing room as she was getting ready for this evening. She was so happy. It seems this is a very important social event in Thorndale and not feeling able to attend has made her feel rather like an outcast. She is back now, where she belongs.”

“Thanks mainly to you.”

“I think we made a very good team.”

He smiled and touched his glass to hers. “My one regret tonight is that I wish I could ask you to dance.”

Gwen blushed again. She put her hand to her warm cheek and he smiled.

“We are taking it in turns, it seems. That is a phrase I did not know until you taught me. My English is so much improved.”

“Yes it is. I think you have cheated. We speak so much in English while my French languishes untouched.”

“I am so sorry.”

“There are other ladies without a partner, Lieutenant.”

“I am afraid I do not dance this evening either, ma’am. My leg is still too painful and I would be too clumsy.”

Stricken, she realised she had completely forgotten about his limp. It seemed to have got so much better that it had not occurred to her that dancing would be impossible for him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Lloyd. I have no wish to dance. I have promised a French lesson to a very lovely young lady. Come, let us sit and we will begin.”

She was aware of curious looks as he led her to a brocade sofa in a small alcove by the big double doors but quickly forgot about them as he began to speak to her. She replied, listened to his corrections and repeated them. She tried some phrases of her own, interrupting herself to ask for the right word or to check her pronunciation. With music playing, dancers whirling around the floor and the noise level rising, she became completely absorbed in the lesson and in him.

Eventually a noise from outside the room caught her attention. She broke off, listening and saw from his intent face that he had heard it too.

“Whatever is that?”

“I do not know. Come.”

He rose, took her hand and drew her through the doors. They went to the balustrade which overlooked the entrance hall below and were startled by a peal of laughter which had to have come from a child.

“Now give over, Miss Grace.” The voice was that of Mrs Hibbert, the housekeeper. “You’ll have to come through into the book room while I fetch Lady Howard. We had no idea you’d be arriving today and this late. We’re in the middle of the Christmas ball and I’ve barely got the nursery ready.”

“Oh that’s all right, Mrs Hibbert. We’ll camp out in the book room until tomorrow,” a small boy said cheerfully. “We got used to camping in Portugal and Spain when we visited Mama and Papa and…”

“That’s enough Francis,” a man’s voice said firmly. “Mrs Hibbert, I’ll take Grace and Francis through but the little ones need to be taken to bed immediately. Miss Webster can carry Rowena if…”

Gwen could not resist. The children’s voices and laughter reminded her of her own small cousins back in Wales. She was already on her way to the stairs when Raoul said:

“They remind me of my nephews.”

She looked round at him in surprised delight. He was smiling. Gwen put out her hand and towed him down into the tiled hallway where an exhausted looking tutor and governess carried a small child each. A fair-haired boy of about ten or eleven was standing inspecting a family portrait above the fireplace, while a dainty girl of about the same age in a fur-lined pelisse had caught the sound of the music from the ballroom and was dancing gracefully across the tiles in a world of her own.

“Good evening,” Gwen said cheerfully. “You seem to have some surprise arrivals, Mrs Hibbert. Is there anything we can do to help? Neither of us can join the dancing this evening and we heard them come in.”

Mrs Hibbert looked at her in surprise. “Well, Miss Lloyd, I don’t rightly know. I’ll need to find Lady Howard without disturbing the party too much and I’ll have to supervise them taking the luggage up, since Bentley is busy with the wine for the party. As Mr Harcourt says, the little ones should go straight up, but as for this pair…”

She surveyed the two older children with a grim expression which imperfectly concealed her affection. The boy turned to give her a broad grin.

“We’ll be all right, Mrs Hibbert.”

“May we go up and watch the dancing?” the girl begged.

“You may do nothing, miss, until your Grandmamma says so.”

“Why don’t you see to the nursery, Mrs Hibbert. Lieutenant Delon can find Lady Howard and I’ll stay here with Grace…and is it Francis?”

“Yes,” the girl said instantly. She had stopped dancing and came forward, bobbing a little curtsey. “I am Grace and this is Francis van Daan. Who are you, ma’am? Are you a guest at the ball or staying in the house?”

“I’m just a guest. I’m currently staying with Mr and Mrs Carlyon.”

“Oh, Uncle Simon’s parents,” the boy said casually. “That’s nice.” Deep blue eyes were fixed on Raoul and Gwen suddenly wondered if her French companion was about to be insulted by the son of a major-general.

“Are you French, sir?”

“I am,” Raoul said gravely. He gave a little bow. “Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28^th ligne. I am a prisoner-of-war but this evening I too am a guest. I have been billeted here while I recover from a wound.”

“Really?” Francis sounded delighted. “Will you be here all over Christmas?”

“I will.”

“That’s excellent. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I’ve never met a French officer properly before, though I’ve met loads of English ones of course. Your English is very good. Where have you served? How were you wounded? Have you ever seen Bonaparte? Did you…”

Raoul was laughing. He held up a hand. “Enough, Master Francis. You may ask me anything you wish, but not all tonight. I must go to find Lady Howard. You shall stay with Miss Lloyd. She is my very good friend so do not talk her to death.”

“Do you speak French, Miss Lloyd?” Grace asked. She was surveying Gwen thoughtfully.

“Not very well. I learned it at school but Lieutenant Delon has been helping me to improve.”

“Well I wish you would help Francis,” Grace said grimly. “Papa says he speaks French like a drunken Irishman.”

Francis started to laugh. “Yes, he did. He didn’t realise Mama was listening. You should have seen the look she gave him. Could you help us though? Miss Webster and Mr Harcourt are good sorts but I don’t think their accent is any better than mine and I’ll need to speak it properly for when I’m in the army.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Gwen said, thankful that the weary tutor and governess had disappeared off with the younger children.

“Yes. I want to be a major-general, like my father. Or even a field marshal, like Lord Wellington. And I’ll fight the French and…”

He froze abruptly, realising what he had just said. For a moment he looked apprehensive. Gwen shot a glance at Raoul but he was smiling.

“I hope you will not have to, Francis. I hope by then, our two countries will be friends.”

“So do I, sir,” the child said, sounding relieved. Raoul looked at Gwen.

“I will be back very soon with Lady Howard,” he said in French. “Courage, ma belle.”

He had taken three steps towards the stairs when Grace said clearly:

“Are you married to each other?”

Raoul turned in surprise. He looked at Gwen. She was carefully not looking at him.

“No, Grace.”

“Are you engaged?”

“No, Miss Grace. We are not engaged. Just friends.” Raoul’s voice sounded a little strained, as though he was barely containing laughter.

“Oh.” Grace sounded a little disappointed. The Lieutenant turned away. He was halfway up the first flight of stairs when she spoke again.

“Are you going to get engaged?” she asked. “I think it would be a good idea. If you’re not married to somebody else, I think you’d suit awfully well.”

***

It took more than an hour to get the children fed with bread and butter and warm milk. Raoul was not quite sure how he and Gwen became incorporated into the arrangements. At the last moment, Grace insisted that he go up to the nursery to sing them a French song before they went to sleep. Lady Howard protested loudly but Raoul was absurdly flattered and assured her that he did not mind. He sang them three and they were almost asleep as he tiptoed out of the nursery accompanied by Nurse’s whispered thanks.

He found Gwen in the book room, drinking a glass of brandy. She handed one to him and he sipped it gratefully.

“Lady Howard had to go back to the ball. Supper will be starting soon. She has reserved seats at the family table for us, since she says we seem to have been adopted into it.

He laughed. “I enjoyed it.”

“So did I. I’m almost glad we couldn’t dance this evening. We’d have missed all that. You had better eat plenty at supper. I think you are going to be much in demand tomorrow to describe your entire army career to Master Francis van Daan.”

“As well as teaching him French,” Raoul said gravely. “May I take you to supper, Miss Lloyd?”

“I would like that, Lieutenant Delon.”

“Je m’appelle Raoul.”

She shot him a surprised glance and took his arm.

“Raoul. Je m’appelle Gwen.”

“Gwen. I do not know if this would be possible, or even legal while I am still a prisoner. I certainly know that I cannot follow you back to Wales without breaking my parole. But I cannot help agreeing that we should suit awfully well.”

He saw her smile light up that attractive face that could have been French and remembered that he had once thought he could easily take her home to meet his mother. Not yet, but one day, God willing.”

“Raoul, I would never allow you to risk breaking your parole. I think until this war is over I will have to find a way to stay here.”

He turned to her quickly, his heart full, catching her by the shoulders. “Truly?”

“Truly, my love.”

He bent to kiss her and was aware of nothing but his joy in her, so it was a shock when he finally looked up to see two children, both in nightclothes, standing on the stairs watching with benign interest.

“Francis, Grace, what are you doing out of bed?” Gwen asked. She sounded a little breathless and her face was pink.

“I just remembered there was one more thing,” Francis said. “Can I practice fencing with you? My father started teaching me and gave me a practice foil but Aunt Patience said she would rather face a herd of charging elephants than let me loose with a weapon.”

“I thought it was rhinoceros,” Grace objected.

“Was it? Maybe it was, I wasn’t really listening. Anyway, could you, sir? I don’t think Uncle George or Uncle Arthur can fence and…”

“Francis, I will fence with you,” Raoul said. Her hand was warm in his and his heart was full of happiness. “But if you do not go to bed immediately I will give you your first lesson right now and I promise you will not enjoy it.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Really? That’s capital. Thank you, sir. On our way. Sorry to interrupt.”

Grace was smiling broadly. “So sorry. And congratulations, Miss Lloyd. He’s very handsome.”

When they had vanished up the stairs, Gwen took his arm and squeezed it gently.

“Shall we go, before they come back?”

“That is a very good idea. Next time it may be pistol shooting. I think I should have brought the brandy with me.”

She was laughing, her face alight with happiness. “We can send a footman to bring it,” she said. “Come to supper, Lieutenant Delon. It is almost Christmas and I believe we have something to celebrate.”

The post The French Lieutanant appeared first on Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors.

Welcome to An Ungentlemanly Officer which is a bonus short story for 2024. As always, it’s freely available on my website  and as a PDF so please share it as much as you like.

This story was written in the middle of a difficult time when I was really struggling to write at all. Since writing is what I love and often what keeps me sane, not being able to do so is never good for me. I was becoming a little desperate.

Eventually I decided to just sit down and write something.  The story came out of a conversation with some readers on Twitter about everybody’s favourite ongoing bad guy, Cecil Welby. Welby has featured in several short stories and has now made it into the main series of books. There have been several mentions about his history of poor behaviour and An Ungentlemanly Officer expands on one of these tales.

For those of you reading the books who like to know where every short story fits into the chronology, this would slot into the first half of An Unconventional Officer (Book One). Paul van Daan spent the winter months in Yorkshire on secondment to the 115th Foot and has already met Anne Howard, the redoubtable daughter of a Yorkshire textile baron. As far as he knows in this story, he’s unlikely to see her again but all that is about to change.

This story is not released to celebrate any particular event apart from, hopefully, the return of my ability to write again. It is however a gift to those many, many readers who have posted and messaged me with their support and good wishes. You’re all wonderful and you make everything I do worthwhile. Thank you with all my heart.

An Ungentlemanly Officer

Lisbon 1808

The invitation to the ball was lying on the table, as it had been for three days. He had opened it and set it aside, not troubling to reply. No response was required anyway; in Lisbon society in the aftermath of the French withdrawal, both Portuguese and British officers were welcome guests at any entertainment. Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde had spent the past weeks avoiding as many as he could.

The room was small, situated above a barber’s shop and inclined to be damp. There was a leak in the ceiling which required a bucket beneath it when it rained heavily. It had a rusty iron bedstead, a rickety washstand with a cracked mirror, and a battered table and chair. Ataíde, late of the Portuguese Legion, did not care about any of this. It was a room of his own where he could bolt the badly-fitting door and shut out the world and he was passionately grateful for it.

Jaime had arrived back in Lisbon after long exhausting weeks on the road from Northern Spain. Much of it had been spent travelling at night, dodging French patrols. He lived on what little he could steal or scavenge because he did not dare to approach villages or farmhouses openly to ask for help.

 Spain had, until recently, been allied with Bonaparte’s France and although it had now officially changed sides, Jaime knew that there might be some French supporters among the locals. Even more likely was that the villagers would betray him out of fear of French reprisals. He had no wish to put anybody at risk so he went hungry until he reached the safety of his own country which was currently, if somewhat precariously, under the protection of the British.

There was, Jaime found, little for him to do. He arrived to discover the remains of the disbanded Portuguese army in chaos while the British, having recently won two stunning victories against the French at Rolica and Vimeiro, had then made a disgraceful peace allowing the enemy to return home with full honours and chests full of Portuguese looted treasures. Jaime was furious. Seething with frustration he reported to the authorities and was allocated a billet, rations and the chance to rummage through piles of discarded kit and uniforms to replace his threadbare garments. Other than that he could only wait, rest and try to recover from his long ordeal.

By the time Sir John Moore led a British army into Spain to meet the French in early November, Jaime would have been ready to march with them but it was not possible. No Portuguese troops accompanied the army. What little organisation there was centred around garrison duty and the officers were bored and restless. They gambled away their pay, grumbled about the lack of orders and accepted every possible invitation from the British garrison while awaiting news.

Jaime was not sure that he was ready to socialise again. The long weeks of isolation and hardship seemed to have robbed him of his pleasure in drinking, dancing and gossip. For a while he hid in his billet and read, but his fellow officers refused to leave him alone. They persecuted him until he began, reluctantly, to accompany them to the endless balls and parties given by local dignitaries to entertain Sir John Cradock and the British officers.

He had almost dug in his heels this evening, purely because of the weather. It was raining; an autumn downpour which would mean he would arrive in the ballroom wet and grumpy. There was no wheeled transport to be had and Jaime sent a civil refusal to his friends. He was not entirely surprised when they arrived anyway, fresh from a tavern, laughing and shaking raindrops from their hair.

“Stop being such a misery, Ataíde,” Captain Peso said. “Everybody there will be wet, including some of the ladies. We’ll soon dry out. Old Barroso always lays on a good supper, all the prettiest girls will be there and…”

“And they will all be dancing with the English officers,” Jaime said. “I have a good red wine here and an excellent book and I would rather…”

They bundled him out of the door laughing and he went, in the end, willingly enough. Recovery was taking too long and he knew in his heart that it would not be found in his solitary room. For a while he had told himself that he was refusing to re-join society as a protest at being unable to fight for his country, but he was beginning to wonder if it was actually because he was afraid. There would be more fighting in his future and he could not afford to give in to fear, so he donned his second-hand dress uniform and shared a battered umbrella to the Palácio de Barroso where the cream of Lisbon society mingled with British officers in scarlet coats and Portuguese officers in whatever uniform they had been able to scrounge.

Even in his shabbiness, Jaime did not feel out of place. The orchestra was excellent and the palace boasted a series of elegant reception rooms leading into a mirrored ballroom. It was already crowded when Peso led his small band to greet his host.

Barroso was a genial man in his fifties, married to a rather younger second wife. He came from a minor branch of an aristocratic family who had made a fortune before the war in wine, olives and the spice trade. Jaime knew he was an enthusiastic supporter of the British, probably for business reasons. He had two sons, one of whom served in the army. Jaime knew him slightly and stopped at the end of the receiving line to talk to him.

Vasco Barroso was around the same age as Jaime. His regiment had been disbanded the previous year but, unlike Jaime, he had not been drafted into the Portuguese Legion and marched off to fight for the French. Instead he had joined one of the volunteer units and remained in the vicinity of Lisbon, harrying the French whenever possible and providing valuable intelligence to Sir Arthur Wellesley upon his arrival in Portugal. Jaime was envious of Barroso who had not been required to make a dangerous escape from French service. He was also envious of his immaculate uniform.

“I’m glad you came, Ataíde,” Barroso said warmly, waving for a servant to bring wine. “You’ve been like a hermit these past weeks.”

“I was very tired after my journey.”

“I’m surprised you survived your journey. You make it sound like a walk in the park, but those of us who stayed safely in Lisbon have nothing but admiration for those of you who managed to get back to us. A lot of the men made it too but it must have been more difficult for the officers.”

“It took me a long time to find the opportunity,” Jaime said. The memory of his weeks marching under a French banner was a bitter taste in his mouth. “They raged about the loss of men, but it was impossible for anyone to keep an eye on them all the time. None of the Portuguese officers tried, of course. The French hunted them into the countryside where they could, but there were not enough of them and if they left the column unguarded, more disappeared. It would have been funny if it had not been for those they shot.”

Barroso handed him a glass of wine and took one for himself. “Were there many?” he asked soberly.

“To be honest, no. They were trying to convince us that we were comrades, not prisoners. That we were fighting for the glory of a new, liberated Portugal under the benign rule of the Emperor. It is difficult to do that if you shoot every man who leaves the ranks. They kept executions to a minimum and tried to disguise them as punishments for looting or attacking an officer. Though none of us were fooled. We all understood that it was a warning.”

“How did you get away?”

“Once we were past Salamanca there were fewer desertions. I think the men were becoming resigned. It would be a long, dangerous journey home from there and the food and conditions were good. One or two of the officers were already supporters of Bonaparte and his reforms and they did a good job of telling the men how much better Portugal would be under his rule.”

“Treacherous bastards.”

Jaime flinched internally. One of the officers concerned had been an old and valued friend and the memory was still painful, but he knew that Lieutenant Calisto had genuinely believed what he said. He made no response to Barroso’s contempt but continued his story.

“From Salamanca we marched north towards the border, along the great road towards Bayonne. There is a fortress called Burgos and after that the country becomes more mountainous. The men were less and less likely to desert in such difficult country and the locals do not even speak Spanish as we understand it but some barbarous dialect which sounds rather as though they are choking. No incentive to leave. That is when I left.”

Barroso looked startled. “Mother of God, I had no idea. How far…I mean, how many miles did you have to walk alone to get back here?”

“I did not know, of course, but Colonel da Cunha had a map and he told me later that it was around five hundred miles. I did not actually cross into France. I doubt I could have escaped after that.” Jaime felt his mouth twist into a small, bitter smile. “I got rid of my French jacket as soon as I could. I was afraid that the French would shoot me as a deserter and the Spanish would shoot me as a Frenchman. I stole clothing and food when I was able to do so. Ate nuts and berries and fruit from orchards. Sometimes I managed to catch rabbits or fish in streams. It was a long way. At times I wished I had not done it.”

Barroso raised his glass. “You are a true patriot and a brave man, my friend.”

Jaime acknowledged the toast awkwardly. “And now I am virtually unemployed.”

“Not for long. There are all kinds of rumours but the army will be reassembled and it will be different this time. Most of the old fools who were willing to surrender to the French without a fight have fled to Brazil with the Royal Family. Sir John Moore has just marched out to join with the Spanish patriots against Bonaparte’s forces in Spain and rumour has it that our army will be reformed with the help of the British. New officers, new equipment and better discipline. Men like you will be needed.”

“You too, Barroso. Don’t think I’m not aware that you were leading partisan volunteers against those bastards while I was taking the long walk home.”

Barroso laughed, flushing a little. “I did what I could. Let us drink a toast, Ataíde. To the new Portuguese army and death to the French. Come, drink up and then I will introduce you to some of our prettiest girls. My sister has friends here tonight and they have all heard of your heroic escape.”

Jaime drained his glass obediently. “Your sister? Didn’t she marry?”

“She did. Four years ago. He was fifteen years older than her and he drank himself to death, leaving her a very wealthy widow.”

“A widow?” Jaime said, startled. “Then how…I mean I am surprised she is here tonight. When did he die?”

Barroso’s lips tightened into a thin line. “More than a year ago,” he said briefly. “She is her own mistress and goes where she chooses. We had expected that she would live modestly at home, as a widow should, until my father found another husband for her. Instead she parades around as though she cares nothing for her reputation. She’s making a complete fool of herself – and our family. Another man would ban her from the house but you know how soft my father is. And she was always his favourite.” Barroso took another swig of wine and shrugged. “The only benefit of her poor behaviour is that she always has a gaggle of pretty unmarried friends with her. I’ll introduce you.”

He did so, leaving Jaime bewildered in a sea of names. He managed to focus on one he knew; a dainty child of sixteen from the Espada family, whose cousin had served with him several years earlier. She accepted his invitation to dance with shy gratitude.

Afterwards, Jaime found himself incorporated into the party. There were one or two Portuguese militia officers, younger than he and slightly overawed by his reputation. The story of his remarkable journey back to Lisbon had spread throughout the city. It had never occurred to Jaime that it might make him something of a hero. He had no intention of trading on it too much, but once the room began to fill with British officers in red coats it ensured that he was still never without a partner.

He took a short break for some wine and found himself standing beside Barroso’s sister. Jaime remembered meeting her before her marriage, although she had been much younger then. She must be around twenty-one now, several years his junior. He did not remember having been particularly struck by her beauty back then but either her looks or his taste had considerably improved. Ebony hair was partly covered by a wisp of black lace which looked nothing like a mourning veil and her eyes were almost as dark. She had warm olive skin and the relatively modest neckline of her black gown hinted at an excellent figure.

Knowing her widowed status and the obvious disapproval of her family at her appearance at such a public event, Jaime had kept his distance after their initial polite introductions, but he could hardly ignore the girl now. He gave a little bow and summoned his best company manners.

“Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, Dona Inés. I’m afraid I am rather late with them but they are sincere.”

She acknowledged him with a regal nod. “My thanks, Lieutenant. It has been more than a year but I am well aware that you have been heroically occupied for much of that time so you have no need to apologise. I was not sure if you remembered me.”

He smiled. “A little. You were much younger then and I think I was a very self-important young officer who was going to change the entire Portuguese army from the inside out. I was probably barely civil.”

To his pleased surprise she laughed out loud. “You were actually very kind. Far more so than most of my brothers’ army friends. I’m sorry you didn’t have the time to effect the necessary changes. You would probably have done a better job than those who were actually in charge.”

“At least I would have made different mistakes.”

The orchestra were playing the introductory bars of the next dance. Jaime hesitated. He had not seen her dance yet and was well aware that to do so would be a shocking thing for a young widow but he was not sure that this particular widow would care all that much.

“Do you dance this evening, Dona? If so, I would be very honoured.”

She rewarded him with a warm smile. “Thank you. I have every intention of dancing, sir, even though it will infuriate my family. I am waiting for a particular friend however and have promised him my first dance. If you ask me again later…”

Jaime bowed, conscious of a flicker of disappointment at the news of a favoured suitor. “I will be sure to do so, Dona. In the meantime, I will keep you company until his arrival.”

“There is no need, Lieutenant, because I see him now. Ask Senhorita Guida to dance, she looks lonely.”

Jaime recognised his dismissal and complied. As he obediently made his way onto the dance floor with the young Guida girl he was surprised to observe that Dona Inés’ suitor was not the Portuguese grandee he had been expecting, but a tall dark British officer with a dramatic moustache and a lordly manner. He bowed over the woman’s hand with an arrogance that raised Jaime’s hackles and towed her onto the dance floor.

It was one of the traditional Portuguese dances. In recent years, many hostesses had begun to incorporate more modern French dances into their balls but Jaime liked these slower dances as it was easier to talk to his partner. Senhorita Guida was a graceful dancer and a pleasant conversationalist. After a while, Jaime saw her glance over at Dona Inés and her partner which gave him the opportunity to indulge his curiosity.

“Who is the gentleman dancing with Dona Inés, Senhorita?”

“Oh that is Captain Welby, Lieutenant. He arrived in Lisbon recently with reinforcements to join his regiment. Cavalry, I believe. Unfortunately Sir John Moore had already marched out so he is awaiting orders about where to proceed to join him. In the meantime he is very popular with the ladies of Lisbon.”

“So I see,” Jaime said dryly, watching as the cavalry officer danced with Dona Inés. “Especially that particular lady. I cannot help wondering…but it is none of my business, of course.”

“Her family are furious,” Senhorita Guida said mildly. “They were angry enough that she refused to remain in seclusion but of course they could do nothing about that, because her husband has no other heirs and he left her everything. I believe he intended to write a clause into his will about her father taking control of the money but for some reason or other he did not do so. I suppose he did not expect to die so soon. He was not so very old.”

“But a good deal older than her.”

“That is very usual in such marriages, Lieutenant. We all know it.”

Jaime shot her a curious glance. It had already occurred to him that this girl was rather old to be unmarried in a society in which girls married very young. He thought she must be at least twenty.

“What of you, Senhorita Guida?”

Her lips curled in an understanding smile. “I am sure you are wondering, Lieutenant. My situation is very different to poor Inés. I have neither great wealth nor great beauty. I also have a widowed mother who is happy to have me at home just now so she is not eager to push me into marriage with the first man who applies for my hand. There was a gentleman…an officer of militia. He was killed during the French invasion. We were not formally betrothed, it was merely an understanding, so I do not have to wear black and stay at home. Though I often wish I could.”

Jaime felt his heart twist at the little break in her voice. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“You did not. At least, not into my affairs. You were asking me about Inés. In response to all the questions you were too polite to ask, I think her family believe she has fallen in love with Captain Welby and they are very unhappy about it.”

“Do you think she has?”

“I cannot be sure. Inés and I have been friends since we were children but she is hard to read. She seems to like his company and flirts with him at every opportunity. But sometimes I wonder if she is doing that because she knows she should not. She was very angry with her family, you see, for making her marry. She was barely seventeen and he was not a kind husband. She was so unhappy for a few years. Now, quite unexpectedly, she has all the money she wants and all the freedom she lacked. Girls very seldom have that. I can see why it might have gone to her head. But I wish she would not.”

Jaime decided that this surprising girl was very shrewd. “Do you disapprove, Senhorita?”

“Not of her going to parties. It is ridiculous that she should be shut away at twenty-two until her father or brothers find another man for her to marry. At the very least, given what she has been through, she should be allowed to make that choice for herself this time. And there would be no shortage of eligible suitors.”

“But you do not approve of her chosen suitor.”

She looked up at him. He realised that her somewhat mousy hair was offset by glorious amber coloured eyes.

“I do not like her chosen suitor,” she corrected him crisply. “The two things are not at all the same. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I have spoken far too freely about things that I don’t really understand. It is all your fault. You are so easy to talk to.”

The dance was coming to an end with a flourish. Jaime stepped back and bowed.

“So are you, Senhorita Guida. Thank you for the dance, it was delightful. May I ask if you are free for the supper dance?”

She laughed. “I am always free for the supper dance, Lieutenant, though since I am an unmarried girl, you should probably ask my mother’s permission.”

“Of course. If you will introduce me.”

She was still laughing. “I was teasing you, Lieutenant. She isn’t here, I came with the Cuesta party.”

“Then I will be happy with your permission instead. I’ll come and find you.”

He delivered her back to her party and went in search of his friends. He found them sharing wine with Vasco Barroso. Jaime had the impression that they too were discussing the matter of the lovely Dona Inés and the cavalryman. They greeted Jaime cheerfully and Lieutenant Javan complimented him on having dried out so well. Jaime aimed a mock punch at his friend, wondering if his improved mood was that obvious. Barroso did not seem to be sharing the jovial atmosphere. He was staring glumly at his sister who was dancing for a second time with Captain Welby.

“I’d like to kick him down the stairs,” he said. “He must know the damage he’s doing to her reputation. How is she going to make a good second marriage after this? He treats her like…”

He stopped as though suddenly realising he had been about to say something highly inappropriate about his sister. Jaime was glad he had restrained himself but he felt a painful sympathy. Watching the couple on the dance floor, he knew exactly what Barroso meant. It was not just Welby’s arrogant possessiveness, although that was irritating enough. There was something disrespectful about the way he detached Inés da Sousa from her companions and he very obviously did not care at all that he was making her conspicuous. At one point, Jaime was fairly sure he saw Welby’s arm about the girl’s waist as he led her to find more wine.

Jaime badly wanted to punch the man. He wondered if any of the British officers present had noticed but decided that even if they had, they probably would not care. If Inés had been an unmarried daughter, Barroso could have prohibited her from attending parties while Welby was still in Lisbon, or even complained to a senior officer about his behaviour. Given Dona Inés’ unusual position in society there was little anybody could do even if they cared enough.

Jaime danced several more times with friends of the Barroso family. The supper dance was approaching and he glanced at his pocket watch then looked around the room for Senhorita Guida.

“Have you managed to get a partner for supper, Ataíde?” Peso demanded. “You lucky dog. We’ve all been cut out by the blasted English. That’s what comes of being a hero of Portugal. I wish I’d been marched off with the elite of the Portuguese Legion.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d spent a week hiding in caves in the Pyrenees, sir,” Jaime said with a laugh. “I’m escorting Senhorita Guida.”

“Joana?” Barroso said. “Very good choice, Ataíde, she’s a lovely girl. I’ve known her since she was small. Not much of a dowry of course, and she can’t hold a candle to my sister for looks but she has a lot more sense. In fact I suspect she is more clever than I am.”

Jaime grinned. “I thought she seemed very intelligent. She didn’t seem all that impressed with Captain Welby either.”

“Good God, no. I believe she told my sister to her face that she thought he was making a fool of her but there’s no talking to Inés when she’s in this mood. He’ll take her into supper and I’ll have to sit watching while he drools over her like a mangy cur with a juicy bone. I can’t stand it.”

Jaime was impressed with the other man’s eloquence. He realised Barroso had been drinking a lot and hoped it would not push him into some social faux pas with his sister’s suitor. He continued to search the room for his chosen partner and saw her finally in a group around General Sir John Cradock who was currently the military governor of Lisbon.

There was a new arrival; a tall, fair officer in a red coat who was talking to Cradock and several other senior officers. He had his back to the room but as Jaime smiled at Joana Guida, the officer turned and surveyed the assembled company with an expression of amused interest.

He was clean-shaven and had a memorable face with striking blue eyes and a ready smile. Jaime thought that he was probably close to his own age, though he wore the insignia of a major which placed him several ranks higher. His height and build were not dissimilar to Captain Welby but Jaime, who found faces interesting, thought that this man gave a very different impression. He was used to the hierarchy of army life but he thought that he had never seen quite this air of unconscious authority from such a young officer in such a glittering setting. He found himself wondering if this man could carry it onto a battlefield as well. If so, it must make him a formidable leader.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Barroso turned to look. “The one with the fair hair? Oh, that’s Major van Daan of the 110^th. Have you not met him before? Probably not; he’s not been out much recently. He got left behind when Moore marched out, poor bastard. Half the battalion came down with camp fever and Van Daan’s young wife along with them, so they left the Major in charge here.”

“Did she survive?” Jaime asked. He knew how quickly camp fever could devastate an army.

“Yes; I’m told she’s finally on the mend. He lost a few of the men, mind. Must have been bloody frustrating for him as well. He’s a favourite of Sir Arthur Wellesley and played a big part at Rolica and Vimeiro but of course they’ve packed off Wellesley to London along with Burrard and Dalrymple, to answer for that appalling peace treaty at Cintra. Then he didn’t even get to march with Moore. He must feel like the man they left behind. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Though he doesn’t speak much Portuguese.”

Van Daan was engaged in conversation with two senior officers but he broke off as Barroso approached and came forward with a smile and a salute.

“Lieutenant Barroso. It is good to see you.”

He spoke in halting Portuguese, with a dreadful accent. Barroso made the introductions very slowly and Jaime bowed. He wished he spoke more than a few words of basic English, because he realised that he very much wanted to have a conversation with this man although he had no idea why. Barroso smiled, bowed and moved on, leaving Jaime to extricate himself from a somewhat awkward situation with no common language. Van Daan studied him with considerable interest.

“Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde,” he said thoughtfully. Unexpectedly he switched to fluent, idiomatic French. “I do beg your pardon for speaking the language of the enemy at a social occasion, as well as for my assumption that you’ll understand it. But I’ve heard of you and I’m very glad to meet you. Am I right?”

Jaime had never been so pleased to hear French in his life. “You are right, sir,” he said, in the same language. “I was taught it as a boy in school but my fluency improved considerably earlier this year.”

Van Daan laughed aloud. “I’ll just bet it did,” he said. “Look, let me make my excuses to Colonel Barry here and we will find a drink and somewhere peaceful to talk.”

“I would love to, Major, but I may not until after supper. I have promised to escort a young lady.”

“Of course you have. Forgive me. I’ve left my own lady at home; she’s still recovering from an illness. I’ll have a bachelor supper with my fellow officers and find you afterwards. Unless…”

Jaime realised that Van Daan was looking across the room. He turned to follow the other man’s gaze and saw that he appeared to be watching Captain Welby. The cavalry officer was raising a glass to Inés da Sousa, who was laughing up at him. Jaime thought uncomfortably that she might be a little tipsy and felt for her family’s helpless rage.

“Isn’t that Barroso’s sister?” Van Daan asked in sudden interest. “We met a few months ago, I believe.”

“Yes,” Jaime said glumly. “The gentleman with her is a Captain Welby, I am told. Of the…”

“Of the 9^th Dragoon Guards,” Van Daan finished for him. As they watched, Welby reached out a hand and ran a finger very delicately over the pale skin at the base of the girl’s throat, then down towards the modest bodice of her gown. Inés seemed to sway towards him. Jaime felt himself go rigid with anger.

Behind them a voice said:

“Paul, don’t you bloody dare.”

Van Daan spun around. His good-looking face was alight with laughter. His friend had spoken in English but Van Daan replied in French, obviously for Jaime’s benefit.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Swanson. What possible harm can I do? I’m on very good terms with her family; they’ve been keeping my wife supplied with luxury food to tempt her appetite. And I’m a respectable married man. Everybody here knows that.”

The Lieutenant said a word under his breath that even Jaime was able to translate from English. Van Daan lifted his eyebrows and waited. After a moment the other man rolled his eyes, stood to attention and saluted smartly. Van Daan grinned.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Go and find yourself a partner and join us. Mr Ataíde here will help.”

“You’re going to get cashiered. Again.”

“I was not cashiered. Your memory is going, it must be the fever. Excuse me, Mr Ataíde. Save me space at your table, I’m bringing a guest.”

Jaime watched as he crossed the room to join Inés and Welby. He clapped the cavalry officer on the shoulder so heartily that it must have hurt, stepped neatly between him and the woman, took Inés’ hand and bowed over it with surprising grace. Jaime saw her look of surprise, followed by recognition. Then she was smiling, blushing a little. Jaime supposed she understood some French. Most girls learned it in the schoolroom. Certainly she understood whatever elegant compliment Major van Daan had just paid her.

The Major kept hold of her hand with a casual possessiveness which managed, unlike Welby, to appear completely respectful. He turned to Welby and spoke. Welby did not move. Van Daan spoke again. Welby snapped to attention and saluted.

Van Daan kissed the girl’s hand again and relinquished it. He put his hand on Welby’s shoulder again and steered him firmly away, speaking very quietly. Jaime had no idea what he was saying and would have paid to find out, but when he released Welby and returned to Inés, the man did not follow. Van Daan smiled at the girl, placed her hand on his arm and looked around for Jaime.

Jaime remembered his instructions and collected his partner along with an unattached girl for Lieutenant Swanson. He discovered that Van Daan had already found a spacious table.

“Come and join us, Mr Ataíde. Senhorita Guida, it’s good to see you again. I believe we danced together at Sir Arthur Wellesley’s ball. Mr Ataíde, we have a confusion of languages here. I’m going to have to rely on you to translate where necessary. After supper, we’ll talk.”

Jaime handed Joana into her chair. He felt very disoriented but thought at this moment that he would probably have obeyed an order from this man to charge the enemy cannon without the slightest hesitation.

***

It was the early hours of the morning by the time Major Paul van Daan left the Palácio de Barroso and made his way through the darkened streets to the villa he had rented on his arrival in Lisbon earlier in the year. It had been a sudden decision to bring his wife with him and her recent illness had caused him bitter regrets at times. They had agreed that she would follow him out as soon as she received word that Lisbon was secure and she had been delighted with this elegant villa which Paul had managed to hire from the agent of a Portuguese grandee who had fled to Brazil with the Royal Family.

Rowena was shy in company but she had tried her best in the weeks after Wellesley’s victories, as Lisbon celebrated with parades and parties, lauding the British as liberators and heroes. Paul was happy that she was with him. Their marriage had not always been easy and he was bitterly aware of his infidelities and failings as a husband but he was genuinely resolved to do better.

The outbreak of camp fever had prevented him from joining Sir John Moore’s march into Spain. The rest of the 110^th had marched out under Colonel Johnstone while Paul was left in command of around two hundred men too sick to march. Most of them came from his light company and it was not long before several of the officers came down with the illness. When Rowena sickened, Paul had been utterly terrified. He remained by her bedside, blaming himself and longing for the chance to tell her how much she meant to him.

Her recovery had been slow, but seemed assured now. Most of his men were also on the mend although too many had died. Paul hated losing men to sickness, though it was the most common cause of death in the army. He felt restless and shut out, waiting both for news from the rest of his battalion in Spain and from Wellesley in London about the result of the Cintra inquiry. For weeks he had not felt much like socialising, but Senhor Barroso had personally asked him to attend the ball and Rowena had told him to go.

“You cannot sit by my bedside constantly Paul, and I am so much better. I’m looking forward to the day I can attend a ball with you.”

Paul reached out and placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re having a relapse,” he said gravely. “I’ve never before heard you say you were looking forward to a party.”

“I always look forward to dancing with you.”

“I’ve missed dancing with you too, my angel. I will go. Barroso is a good old stick and has been so generous to us while you’ve been ill. I think he’s a bit in love with you to be honest. I’d like to catch up on the gossip. I miss Wellesley. Anything could be happening and I wouldn’t know about it. It’s so frustrating.”

She gave a little laugh and reached out her hand. He took it, noticing how thin she had become. “Poor Paul. Don’t worry about it. I predict that Sir Arthur will be gloriously exonerated and sent back to save Portugal.”

“I admire your optimism, love, but he’s just as likely to be sent to South America. Never mind. Get plenty of rest and I’ll tell you all the gossip in the morning. It’s a sign that I don’t have enough to do that I’m genuinely curious about this story that poor Barroso’s widowed daughter is disgracing herself with a British officer. I wonder who it is? Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

“As long as it isn’t you, Paul.”

Paul felt a little frisson of surprised guilt. Rowena never taxed him with his occasional lapses and although her tone was joking, even the fact that she had mentioned it bothered him. He leaned over and kissed her fully on the lips.

“I promise, angel. Go to sleep and get well. I need you. You know that.”

Walking back to the villa much later, Paul reviewed the evening. He had a slightly guilty feeling that he had behaved badly but he decided he did not care. He did not really have much interest in the beautiful but wayward Widow da Sousa apart from a sense of gratitude to her father and stepmother, who had proved an unexpected source of support during Rowena’s illness. The opportunity to annoy Captain Cecil Welby of the 9^th Dragoon Guards, however, was always irresistible.

Welby was four years older than Paul. They had met at Eton and for two years the older boy had done his best to make the lives of Paul and his friends miserable. He had not really succeeded. Paul had received a few beatings but had quickly learned how to defend himself and became an expert at getting some of the more amiable older boys on his side. A practical joke gone wrong had led to the expulsion of both Paul and Welby and their paths had not crossed again until an unexpected meeting at a reception in London. At that point they had been of equal rank; both captains although Welby’s was of longer standing.

Paul had often found that past antagonisms faded with time. That had not been the case with Welby. By that time, Paul was on his way up, high in the favour of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Welby’s career in the cavalry seemed to have stalled, with one or two unsavoury rumours about his conduct following him from one posting to another. Paul loathed army gossip, having been on the receiving end of it himself on a number of occasions, but he was prepared to make an exception in Welby’s case. The man had no redeeming qualities that he could find.

They had met a few times after that, in the shifting world of army life. Paul had not even thought of Welby when he received his promotion to major, purchased over more experienced men at an exorbitant cost. He had not regretted it though and thought he was doing a good job. The sight of Welby, still bearing the insignia of a captain, was a purely childish pleasure. Still, he would not have bothered to make the most of it had Welby not been behaving so badly with Senhor Barroso’s daughter.

Paul wondered about Lieutenant Ataíde. He had seen the man’s face at Welby’s behaviour and suspected that he had an interest in the girl. Paul thought it a pity. He had talked for a long time after supper with Ataíde and was very impressed. Wellesley had spoken with him about the management of the Portuguese army and Paul thought that Ataíde had just the right blend of courage and intelligence to ensure a brilliant future. He intended to make sure that whoever took over the task of commanding and training the disorganised Portuguese forces knew all about Jaime Ataíde.

Unfortunately, Paul did not think that Dona Inés would be much of an asset to a young officer eager for promotion. Still, that was not his business and he had no intention of making it so. The best he could do for his new acquaintance was to make sure that Welby could do no further damage to her reputation. After that, Ataíde was on his own.

A combination of a late night, weeks of stress and more wine than usual meant that Paul awoke late the following morning. Rowena was curled up in his arms, still deeply asleep. He lay holding her, thinking back over the previous night, and felt an overwhelming sense of content. The emotional storms of the past year had left him brittle and unsettled but lying here holding Rowena, he felt simple happiness and an enormous relief that she had been spared.

Apart from his regular visits to barracks and to the hospital ward where the remaining sick men from his battalion were slowly recovering, Paul spent the next weeks at Rowena’s side. Her recovery seemed to be faster now. She spent more and more time out of bed, dined with him each evening and insisted on going out for gentle walks to regain her strength.

Paul fussed over her in a way that many women would have found irritating but Rowena seemed to enjoy it. He consulted with the cook about dishes to tempt her appetite and hired a gig to take her driving in the fresh air. He continued to ignore the growing pile of invitations until he received a visit from Lieutenant Carl Swanson who was his boyhood friend and one of his most trusted officers.

“Are you going to the headquarters reception tomorrow, sir?”

“I wasn’t planning to. I thought I’d drive along the coast road with Rowena and then have an early dinner at that place on the quay. They serve superb seafood and it will be the first time we’ve eaten out since…why? Should I be there?”

“It depends on whether the situation with Welby bothers you. He’s back with Dona Inés – all over her in fact. I feel sorry for her father and brothers. They’re furious but they’ve no idea what to do. He’s a British officer.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! How did that arsehole suddenly become my problem?”

“It’s really not, sir. It’s just that there’s nobody to intervene. He has no commanding officer in Lisbon, while he’s waiting for orders. I think Barroso would like to complain but has no idea who to speak to.”

“Given that the woman is her own mistress, her father can’t really complain at all. If I thought the matter was just down to stupidity, I’d be inclined to allow nature to take its course, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“Why is it?” Carl asked. “Because it’s Welby?”

“Carl, I only have to look at Welby to want to punch him. That’s hardly a secret. But he doesn’t serve in my battalion and isn’t really my business. It’s just that…”

“Sir?”

“I took her into supper that evening just to annoy Welby. He can’t punch me, I’m a senior officer. But I very quickly realised that she was very drunk. I think he pours wine into her on every possible occasion and I’m afraid it’s clouding her judgement. I’m all in favour of a woman making her own choices, but to do that successfully she needs to be stone cold sober. I don’t like the look of this. I’ve just been trying to ignore it.”

Carl looked appalled. “Christ, Paul, are you serious? Do her family know?”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t live with them. They think she’s just doing this to defy them and I think there’s something in that. I had a long talk with Ataíde and he seems to think they shovelled her into a marriage with an unpleasant older man. She probably has reason to be furious. But if she thinks she’s going to solve the problem with bloody Cecil Welby, she’s very much mistaken. If he’s planning marriage, she’ll be miserable. If he’s planning seduction, she’ll be ruined. And don’t even bother to ask me why I care.”

His friend was smiling. “I don’t need to, sir.”

“Oh fuck off, Swanson. I want to be with my wife.”

“I can see that, sir. I don’t blame you. Look, I’d try to help, but Welby is senior to me and…”

“No, don’t. You can’t go near it. It has to be me.”

“It doesn’t have to be you. Sergeant O’Reilly and Private Carter are bored to tears. Just find out where he’s billeted and I’m sure they would…”

“Stop!” Paul put his hands over his ears. “I’m not listening, Swanson. And as a parson’s son, you should be bloody ashamed of yourself, putting that idea into my head. All right, I’ll go to the blasted reception but I don’t want to leave Rowena on her own. Do you think you could…?”

“I’ll take her for a drive, sir. As long as Captain Wheeler goes to the reception to make sure you behave yourself. Although he’d probably rather swap.”

“Don’t tell him. He can pull rank on you. Carl…am I over-reacting to this? Because of Welby?”

“I don’t think so. I know how much you dislike him. But I genuinely think he’s trying to take advantage of that poor woman.”

“For some reason I’ve been thinking a lot about Will Cathcart these past weeks. I suppose it’s meeting Welby. Remembering our school days. I can recall the first time I saw Cathcart. His face was in the mud on the west field, with Welby’s foot on the back of his head. I remember running at Welby so hard with my head in his midriff that he couldn’t speak for fifteen minutes. We never really got on after that.”

Carl laughed aloud. “Paul, you’re not thirteen any more. You don’t need to do that.”

“No, I know. At least, the methods are different. I still can’t believe Will is dead. I was in Naples when I got the news. Fucking yellow fever. He was one of the best men I knew. Still, if he was here now, he’d tell me to stop making excuses about the girl and deal with Welby. Whatever her problems, no woman deserves that. I just hope it doesn’t end with her marrying Lieutenant Ataíde. He can do a lot better. All right, Lieutenant. You’re in charge of my wife for the evening. Don’t run off with her.”

“I’ll try to remember that, sir,” Carl said seriously. Paul looked around for something to throw at him but his wife was clearly feeling better and had tidied up.

***

British army headquarters was located in the Palácio de Calhariz on the corner of the Rua do Loreto. The original palace had been mostly destroyed during the earthquake of 1755 and had been rebuilt on elegant lines. The reception rooms were already crowded when Jaime arrived and he paused to speak to several Portuguese officers before making his way into the throng.

During the past weeks, with no formal duties, Jaime had spent time working on his language skills. His English was improving and he spent long hours studying. It seemed clear that however the war progressed, Britain and Portugal were likely to be allies, hopefully fighting together, and he wanted to be able to speak freely to his fellow officers. It gave him something to do and he was delighted to test the results as he moved through the crowd, picking up snatches of conversation.

Major van Daan had been noticeably absent from most social events over the past few weeks but Jaime had been surprised and very flattered to twice receive an invitation to dine with him privately. Mrs van Daan had not been present and the Major received his guest’s concerned enquiries about her health with a grin.

“She’s very much better, thank you. Her absence is not due to ill-health, it’s because I wanted to talk to you properly and her French isn’t up to the job. Also she’s hiding; she hates entertaining. I do want to introduce you at some point though. You’ll like her. How’s your English coming along?”

They conversed in a mixture of both languages and Jaime appreciated the opportunity to practice. The conversation ranged over a wide variety of topics, both military and political. Jaime was somewhat dazzled by his host’s knowledge of current affairs both at home and throughout Europe. He realised that Van Daan’s background of both trade and aristocracy, his friendship with the absent Wellesley, and his circle of acquaintances in and out of the army gave him an understanding of what was happening in Portugal which outstripped most of the local grandees.

Jaime was delighted with his new acquaintance and tried hard to hide how flattered he was. He was not sure what had made Paul van Daan’s attention light upon him but he had a suspicion that it could only be good for his future career and the faintly envious teasing of some of his friends suggested that they thought the same thing.

He had given up expecting to meet Van Daan in public while his wife was not well enough to accompany him but he was pleased to see Lieutenant Barroso at the centre of a group of officers and several of the younger ladies present. As Jaime approached them, he saw that Joana Guida was there and he made his way to her side, bowing over her hand. He had become firm friends with the outspoken Senhorita Guida during the past month.

Joana returned his greeting pleasantly but Jaime was immediately aware of a strained atmosphere. Barroso’s face was thunderous and there was a whisper of gossip among some of the others. Jaime looked at Joana and raised his eyebrows.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. I am not sure. Lieutenant, would it be possible to take a turn about the room with me? We cannot speak freely here.”

She spoke in an undertone, not much above a whisper. Jaime offered her his arm.

“Of course. Let’s walk through to the terrace. Nobody will be there, it’s too chilly.”

They made their way through the rooms, stopping to speak to others only when obliged to. As Jaime had suspected, the terrace drawing room was deserted. During the summer, when the long glass doors were open, it was a favourite spot for courting couples or men wanting a place for quiet conversation. In December, the windows were firmly closed against a grey cloudy sky and the room was unoccupied apart from two elderly Portuguese generals by the door who seemed to be engaged in reminiscing about better days. They gave Jaime and his companion a disapproving glance but moved to the other side of the door as though they suspected the worst.

“That is General Leandres, my Godfather,” Joana said. “He will probably report back to my mother that I am making assignations with handsome young officers.”

Jaime was startled. “I’m sorry. Should we go back? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Oh don’t worry, she won’t take any notice. She will pretend not to believe him but to be honest, she would probably be pleased to hear that I am taking an interest. I’m sorry to have kidnapped you, Lieutenant Ataíde. I’m worried about Inés.”

Jaime was aware of a flash of irritation; not with his companion but with her flighty friend. It seemed to him that Joana spent far too much of her time worrying about Inés da Sousa and he would have preferred to talk about something more interesting. Still, he had never known Joana to be overly dramatic and it was clear that something was bothering her.

“Has something new happened?” he asked. “I could see that her brother looked as though he wanted to shoot somebody. Honestly, that girl is a nuisance. I’ve never been keen on the custom of young widows being expected to stay at home but in her case it would have been a blessing. Is it Welby again?”

“Yes. And when I am less anxious, Lieutenant, I would like to have a conversation with you about why it is always the woman’s fault when something like this happens. Has it not occurred to you that Captain Welby should bear some responsibility?”

Her voice was frosty and Jaime realised he had blundered badly. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean…at least, I probably did mean it. It’s what I was always taught. But I think you are right. Certainly Major van Daan seems to think that it is Welby’s behaviour that is at fault here.”

“It is a pity we see so little of Major van Daan, since he appears to be the only man able to see what is happening and willing to take appropriate action. She is not at all herself, Lieutenant and I’m very worried about her. But today…”

She broke off, studying him from those beautiful golden eyes. They reminded Jaime of a rather lovely cat. He realised that he was staring into them like an idiot and not responding like a sensible man. It was obvious to him that in the absence of Major van Daan, he was the best Joana had managed to come up with in her choice of an ally and he wanted to impress her so he tore his gaze away and asked:

“What has happened, Senhorita? Are they here? I did not see either of them as I came in.”

“She was with me earlier. I thought she seemed different. More subdued. I was beginning to hope that they had quarrelled. And I think they might have. Only then he arrived and took her away and now I cannot find either of them. She cannot have left with him, I am sure. She always brings a companion to these events, to chaperone her.”

Jaime had never seen any sign of a chaperone and said so. His companion gave him a look.

“She employs an older cousin to live with her. Dona Luisa is usually to be found in a quiet room with her own friends, lamenting the wild behaviour of young girls today. You will note that she makes no attempt to prevent such wild behaviour, she just complains about it. Dona Luisa is still here but I cannot find Inés or Captain Welby. Lieutenant Barroso is beginning to talk very ominously about challenges and shooting the Captain dead. His father is not here today fortunately, he is laid up with the gout. Otherwise I am afraid there would already have been a scene. I need to find them but I don’t know what to do. Lieutenant, I know this is not your problem and you must be very bored with me by now, but…”

Jaime took her hand and kissed it. “I don’t think I could ever be bored by you, Senhorita. I am very bored with Dona Inés and her unpleasant suitor, but I will help in any way that I can. Not for their sakes but for yours. Do you seriously think she has sneaked off with him somewhere?”

Joana did not speak for a moment. Jaime realised her cheeks had gone very pink. She withdrew her hand gently from his.

“I don’t think they will have left the palace, though they might be in the garden I suppose. She has behaved very foolishly a few times recently but I think that has been because she is…because he…at times I believe she has been under the influence of too much wine. That cannot be true today unless he has brought it with him. There is never much to drink at Sir John Cradock’s receptions.”

“For today at least, I think we may be grateful for Sir John’s parsimony,” Jaime said gravely. “Let me take you back to your friends, Senhorita, then I’ll begin to search. I didn’t notice them in the public rooms but then I wasn’t looking for them. I’ll do another walk through and if they’re not to be found I’ll try the garden. It’s not very big, they can hardly hide out there.”

“May I come with you?”

Jaime hesitated. “Senhorita, I would welcome your company but I’m a little concerned about your own situation. Presumably you are here with a chaperone of your own, but…”

She gave a brief smile. “I am here with the Cuestas as usual so Dona Isabela is my nominal chaperone but she will be found with Dona Luisa and the rest of the old cats and will not care at all what I do. If we find them, Lieutenant, it will be far easier for me to intervene and draw her away than for you. The Captain may not like me – indeed he loathes me – but he can hardly challenge me or try to provoke me to challenge him. Please.”

After a moment Jaime nodded and held out his hand. She took it with a look of pure gratitude which unexpectedly made this whole exasperating affair worthwhile.

They went through the reception rooms with military precision, checking every distant corner but there was no sign of the errant couple. From there, Jaime led her down a deserted corridor and through a dusty conservatory into a small but lush garden. It had begun to rain again, a fine misty drizzle. Jaime left Joana in the conservatory  with instructions to remain dry and jogged up and down the maze of paths, peering between shrubs and trees. The place was deserted. Jaime was not surprised. A Lisbon garden on a wet December day was not the place for either romance or seduction.

He re-joined Joana, brushing raindrops from his uniform. “Nothing there. I can’t work out where they’ve gone but if they’ve left, one of the sentries must know. Look, Senhorita, I realise that asking questions might cause gossip but I am beginning to feel genuinely concerned. I thought we would find them holding hands in some dim corner but if he has really persuaded her to leave with him, this is a lot more serious. You’re her friend. I’ll abide by your wishes, but if it was my sister, I’d want somebody to do something at this point.”

She looked very pale but there was a determined set to her jaw. “Yes. Yes, of course. You are right, Lieutenant.”

“Should I involve her brother?”

“Not yet. The sentries are English. I speak very little but I know you have been studying hard. Do you think you will be able…?”

“Yes, I think so. As long as they don’t ask any difficult questions, which they probably won’t given that I wear an officer’s uniform. I wasn’t expecting this to be the first real test of my English lessons, but let’s try. Come on.”

There were four sentries on the outer door of the palace and two more on the inner door, which led to the first reception room. Jaime approached one of these with a thumping heart and recited his carefully rehearsed question about his missing friends. He tried to make it sound light-hearted, as though the whole thing was in the nature of a practical joke.

It seemed to work, as the tall sergeant relaxed a little though he did not exactly smile.

“I think I understand, sir. Wouldn’t want the young lady to get into any trouble. I don’t think I’ve seen them leave, but with your permission, I can ask my lads on the side door. I wouldn’t have seen anyone going through that way. Just one moment.”

Jaime waited, giving Joana a reassuring smile. He did not think she had understood much of the exchange. He was pleased at how well he had managed and silently thanked Major van Daan’s patient willingness to allow him to practice.

The Sergeant’s voice raised in an impressive bellow and after a moment, a younger man appeared from the far side of the broad staircase. He was dressed differently to his Sergeant, in the dark green of the Rifles. Jaime wondered how he came to be under the command of an NCO from another regiment. He looked back at the Sergeant’s red jacket with pale grey facings and realised suddenly that the uniform was familiar and that the Sergeant must be from the 110^th. Van Daan had told him that with limited troops in Lisbon at present, all regiments took turns at sentry duty.

“Private Carter, I’ve a question for you. We’ve a missing lady and an officer in a red coat and this gentleman would like them found before there’s a scandal. Seen anything?”

There was a significant pause. The Sergeant put his head on one side and gave a deep sigh.

“Carter, don’t piss me off, it’s been a long day and I’m already bored with it. It’s not your job to play patsy for some randy bastard chasing a bit of Portuguese skirt.”

“Not even if it’s the Major, Sarge?”

“Especially if it’s the Major, you cheeky bastard. What do you know? Spill the beans or I’ll crack your head for you.”

Private Carter seemed entirely unabashed. He grinned. “Nothing to do with me, sir, but I did see an officer slipping what looked like a large tip to one of the servants earlier. Wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but I recognised him.”

“Who was it and what was it for?”

“Captain Welby, sir. I thought at the time that it’s a good thing the Major’s not here. It wasn’t hard to work out what he was after because his Portuguese is almost as bad as mine, and I don’t speak a word. He wanted the boy to unlock the library door for him.”

“The library?” the Sergeant said. All laughter had gone. “Where is this library?”

“On the next floor, Sarge. Up the main staircase and left, but you can get to it from the servant’s stairs, down this way.”

“How do you know all this, Carter?”

“I’m nosy, sir.”

“Good man.” The Sergeant turned towards Jaime, who was already moving, his eyes on Private Carter.

“Can you show me?”

“Yes, sir. What about the lady?”

Jaime looked at Joana. “Senhorita, you should remain with the Sergeant until…”

“Do not be ridiculous. I am coming with you, it is why I came in the first place. Hurry, Lieutenant.”

Jaime froze in agonised uncertainty and looked from the Sergeant to Private Carter. Carter came to attention and executed a perfect salute.

“Didn’t understand what she said, sir, but I can tell you she’s got no intention of staying here. You can just tell, like.”

Jaime nodded and gestured. Carter sped down a dim service corridor and up a wooden staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time with Jaime and Joana racing to keep up.

Carter stopped beside a door in the corridor above. “That’s it, sir. I think they’re in there, I can hear voices. I’ll step back now, but I’ll be just at the top of the stairs. Call if you need me.”

He melted away and Jaime put his hand on the doorknob. Before he could open it, Joana pulled his arm away.

“No. I will go first. We agreed.”

“We do not know what is happening.”

“We are about to find out. The door will be open, you can come to my rescue if necessary. I am a woman; he will not attack me. Please, Lieutenant. Step back.”

Jaime obeyed reluctantly. Joana took a deep breath and opened the door wide. Jaime could see nothing but he could hear every word.

Welby spoke first. Jaime did not recognise the word but he knew it was an oath and probably extremely vulgar. Joana probably recognised the fury in his voice but she did not hesitate.

“There you are, Inés. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m sorry to interrupt, but you had better come back downstairs. Your brother is in one of his great fusses and very soon he will start shouting at Dona Luisa which will make her cry. Goodness, whatever have you done to your hair? Did you go out into the garden earlier? It’s very windy out there. I went out for two minutes with Lieutenant Ataíde, but it was far too wet and cold. Here, come and sit down and let me tidy you up before we go down. Oh, Captain Welby. How do you do?”

Jaime was lost in admiration of her artless prattle, since it was something she would never normally have done. He could only imagine the scene she was trying to cover up and silently thanked God that whatever Welby had intended had clearly not gone too far. He also thanked God for Joana’s courage and common sense. If he had burst into the room to find Inés da Sousa in an apparently compromising situation he would have felt obliged to either issue a challenge or at the very least, inform her brother to give him the chance to do so. Joana’s superb social skills looked likely to avert the entire scandal.

Welby swore again. Jaime wondered how much of Joana’s speech he understood. He could hear the murmured voices of both girls now, talking nonsense about hairstyles and bad weather, as though nothing unusual had occurred. All Welby needed to do was leave and the thing was done. Jaime slipped silently back behind the open door where the cavalry officer would be unlikely to notice him as he left. He heard Welby’s boots on wooden boards and saw his tall shadow in the doorway. Then Welby stopped and turned. He spoke in surprisingly fluent French.

“Have it your own way, Inés. There’s a name for a woman who invites a man to a private room with her and then turns coy at the last minute and by the time I’ve finished with your reputation there won’t be a house in Lisbon where you’ll be received. After all, just because this little bitch walked in on us this time, who’s to say there haven’t been others?”

Inés gave a little sob of protest. Jaime felt his entire body go rigid with anger. Before he could respond, Joana spoke.

“You are not a gentleman, Captain Welby. Please leave and be thankful that Dona Inés’ brother was not present. Do not approach my friend again.”

Welby gave a crack of laughter. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, you whey-faced little tart and I don’t suppose you understand me any better. Who knows, I might have a try at you next, once the dust is settled. You don’t have her face or her fortune but your figure isn’t bad and you’d do well enough with the lights off. It’s the only chance you’re likely to have to find out what to do with a man, you…”

It had taken Jaime that long to reach him. He swung his fist and the other man reeled backwards, taken completely by surprise. Blood spurted from his nose. He put his hand up to feel it, looking astonished, then he straightened and raised his fists.

“You filthy little Portuguese bastard. I’m going to make you wish you’d stayed with fucking Bonaparte. By the time I’ve finished with you…”

He advanced on Jaime who stood ready to defend himself but the blow never materialised. Instead a tall, wiry form inserted itself between them and a raised arm absorbed Welby’s attempted punch.

“Captain Welby, I think you’re forgetting yourself,” Private Carter said. He spoke at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. “Come on now, sir, you can’t start a brawl at headquarters. You’ll get yourself court martialled; all the senior staff are downstairs.”

“Get out of my way, scum!” Welby roared.

“Step aside, Private,” Jaime said. He was utterly enraged and desperate to hit Welby again.

“I’m not moving, sir and I can hear Sergeant O’Reilly on the stairs now. It’s our duty to keep the peace at headquarters today and we’re going to do it, one way or another. Lieutenant, think about it. It’s your job to get the ladies out of here as quietly as possible. Get on with it, will you? There’s a good gentleman.”

Jaime took a deep painful breath and turned. The two women stood just inside the room. Both looked terrified. Inés da Sousa had been crying and her dishevelled appearance chilled Jaime and brought him abruptly to his senses. He realised with cold shock that he and Joana might possibly have interrupted something rather more serious than a clumsy attempt at seduction.

“Of course,” he said, stepping back. “Senhorita Guida, I know this is unorthodox, but I think perhaps I should take Dona Inés home, if you would accompany us. She cannot go back to the reception like that.”

“Thank you,” Joana said with passionate gratitude. “I will run to find Dona Isabela and tell her Inés is unwell. She will lend us her carriage and I can send it back afterwards.”

“Good girl,” Jaime said, with a poor attempt at a smile. He could see the tall Sergeant coming along the corridor towards him. “Come along, Dona Inés. We’ll find somewhere quiet for you to wait.” 

He glanced at Carter who was waiting patiently and summoned up his English again, reflecting that this was not the practice he had expected today. “Private Carter, is there a room where the ladies can wait while I arrange their carriage?”

“There’s a little anteroom that’s private, sir,” Carter said. He had not taken his eyes off Welby. “My Sergeant can take over here now and I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, Private. You are a credit to your regiment.”

“Thank you, sir. Maybe you’ll mention that to the Major when he bawls me out for getting into trouble again. I’d be grateful.”

Jaime took Inés’ arm and Joana went to her other side. The girl was shivering violently with what Jaime suspected was shock. Joana seemed remarkably calm and he thanked God that she had probably not understood much of Welby’s threats to herself. They took a few steps down the corridor and the Sergeant moved to stand between Jaime and Welby. Private Carter saluted and moved ahead to lead the way.

“Ataíde,” Welby called out. He had reverted to French. “You’re a lily-livered coward and a traitor. I’ll just bet you didn’t leave the French army of your own accord. I’ll bet they kicked you out once they realised how useless you were. As for that little bitch you’re running around with, you’d better keep a close eye on her. I’ve a score to settle.”

Joana spun around. “If you come within an inch of me, Captain Welby, I will stab you myself,” she said in surprisingly clear schoolgirl French. “Good day.”

Jaime was so surprised he let go of Inés’ arm. He stared at Joana. “I did not realise you spoke French. If I’d known…”

“Not very well, Lieutenant. But well enough to know when I am being threatened and insulted by something I would be likely to scrape off  my shoe on a hot day.” Joana shot a scornful look in the direction of Welby. “Let him try it,” she said very clearly, once again in French.

Jaime could not take his eyes from her. He had completely forgotten about Inés da Sousa. “I don’t think he would dare,” he said frankly. “I know I wouldn’t.”

Joana took her friend’s arm again. “Come, Inés. Let’s get you home.”

They were halfway down the corridor when Welby shouted after them.

“Ataíde, you’ll meet me for this. I’m calling you out, you cowardly bastard.”

Jaime glanced back. “At a time and place of your choosing,” he said, surprised at how easily the words came. “Send a message.”

***

Paul arrived at the reception into the middle of a swell of excited rumour which was spreading through the room and had clearly already reached General Sir John Cradock.

Cradock was a civilised man of around fifty who was making the best of his rather tenuous position commanding the Lisbon garrison while Moore advanced into Spain. Paul liked him on a personal level but disagreed with his pessimistic view of the British chances of success in the Iberian peninsula and thought that Cradock was only too aware that he was going to be replaced as soon as possible by a man with more determination. Paul was very much hoping it would be Wellesley, but his chief first had to shake off the threat of the Cintra inquiry.

Cradock must have been on the lookout for Paul. He summoned him with a gesture before Paul had been able to get any sensible account of what had happened earlier. Paul saluted and Cradock led him through into a private parlour, closed the door and stationed a sentry to refuse entry to all.

“Have you any idea what is going on, Van Daan?” he demanded.

“None at all, sir. I only arrived fifteen minutes ago and if I’d known I was walking into this, I’d have stayed at home with my wife,” Paul said promptly. He was faintly indignant at the implication that the current scandal had anything to do with him and decided to conveniently ignore his own very public intervention in Captain Welby’s love life at a previous party. “What happened?”

“I can get no sense out of anybody and I am furious that it should have occurred at my headquarters and involves an officer of this army.”

“Well I understand your point of view, sir, but nothing is ever going to surprise me about Cecil Welby. Do I gather Lieutenant Ataíde was involved?”

“I believe so, although he has already left. I was then faced by the woman’s chaperone who became hysterical and her brother who was threatening to shoot people. I have never experienced such a thing in my long career. Shocking how little self-control these Latin people have over their emotions.”

Paul managed not to point out that the instigator of the trouble was in fact wholly English. He tried to look sympathetic as Cradock continued to rage but cut in abruptly as something caught his attention.

“Sorry, sir, what was that about the sentries? How were they involved? My men are on duty here this week.”

“That is possibly true, Van Daan, but common soldiers are hardly likely to have any understanding of either French or Portuguese so they will not be able to…”

“That depends on who was involved. May I speak to my Sergeant, sir?”

Cradock waved an irritable hand. “Do so. And get hold of young Ataíde and Welby. You know both of them. Make sure they understand that I will have no duelling under my command.”

Paul managed not to give an unhelpful reply, saluted and left in search of his Irish Sergeant.

He found O’Reilly with Private Carter at the end of the service corridor. Both sprang to attention and saluted.

“Where can we speak privately?” Paul demanded.

“Through here, sir. It’s where we’re putting all enraged officers and outraged ladies this week.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Sergeant, I’m not in the mood.” Paul closed the door and surveyed them. “What the hell happened? Do you know?”

“We’ve something of an idea, sir. It was Carter involved at the start. We’ve been talking about it, trying to put it all together. Some of it’s guesswork. Neither of us speak any French. I understand a bit of Portuguese now, sir. On account of Carlota.”

“Is that the brunette or the redhead?”

“The redhead, sir. The brunette was Maria.”

“Don’t tell me. My head hurts.”

“As if you’ve never got confused,” O’Reilly said darkly. Carter gave a small splutter of laughter, hastily suppressed. Paul glared at both of them.

“Tell me.”

“Well sir, from what we can tell, Captain Welby bribed one of the servants to let him use the library upstairs for a romantic tryst with a lady. Somehow the young Portuguese gentleman…Ataíde, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow he found out and was searching the whole of headquarters to find them. Carter here had seen the Captain handing over the bribe in exchange for the key earlier. He told Lieutenant Ataíde and showed him where the room was.”

“Good decision, Carter. I’m curious though – how the hell did you all manage to understand one another?”

“Mr Ataíde managed it in English, sir. He did quite well. Must have been practising. Once the Lieutenant and his friend broke into the room though, it all got a bit confusing. I could hear French, English and Portuguese and I think all of it involved a lot of cursing. I came to find out what was going on. Mr Ataíde had punched the Captain and the Captain was about to start a brawl. I got between them and then the Sergeant came up and we managed to get them separated. Mr Ataíde took the ladies home and the Captain stormed off.”

“How noisy was it?”

“Too noisy,” O’Reilly said briefly. “We were able to tell people honestly that we had no idea what it was all about as we couldn’t understand their language but some of the servants heard enough to realise that a challenge had been given and accepted.”

“Bugger,” Paul said distinctly. He eyed Carter thoughtfully. “Are you all right, Carter? You said you got into the middle of it.”

“Yes, sir. My arm’s a bit numb where Welby…I mean the Captain punched it. But I didn’t hit anybody, I swear it.”

“I don’t much care if you did. Welby can hardly bloody complain, given the rumpus he’s kicked up. Christ, what a mess. The worst of it is that he doesn’t even have a commanding officer here at the moment and blasted Cradock seems determined to land this whole thing on me. He must have been taking lessons from Wellesley. I wonder if they’ve been corresponding? I can just imagine it now. ‘Should any particularly difficult problems arise during my necessary absence in London, feel free to place them in the lap of Major van Daan. He is entirely accustomed to this.’ Stop laughing O’Reilly, this is not bloody funny.”

“He wasn’t laughing at the time, sir,” Carter said soberly. “Nor was I.”

Paul paused, studying the other man. “Was she all right?” he asked, suddenly conscious that he had not enquired.

“No, sir.”

Paul felt a little chill. “When you say she wasn’t all right, exactly what are we talking about here? I thought we were discussing a romantic tryst.”

“I don’t know how far it went, sir, but I’ve come across women who’ve been through that kind of romantic tryst in my time in the army and that’s not the word I’d use. Nor you, if you’d seen her. The other lady made a good job of tidying her up, mind, but she’d been pulled about a fair bit and I don’t think she enjoyed it, poor lass.”

Paul’s temper exploded. “I should have fucking known!” he roared. “Fucking Welby! When I get my hands on him, I am going to rip his fucking head off! Stand down, Sergeant O’Reilly, Private Carter. My thanks for your intelligent assistance in this.”

He threw open the door. As he expected, he heard his Sergeant’s voice raised in protest.

“Sir, calm down. I think Sir John Cradock wants you to solve the problem, not make it worse.”

Paul did not bother to turn back. “I am going to solve the problem, Sergeant,” he snapped, over his shoulder. “And I know just where to start.”

***

Welby was not in his billet. Paul spent a fruitless two hours searching every tavern he could think of and interrogating Welby’s known friends but he found no trace of him. Eventually he went home to Rowena, his mind fretting at the problem. Tomorrow he would visit Lieutenant Ataíde to see if he could shake any information out of the young Portuguese officer. Paul perfectly understood Ataíde’s desire to end Welby’s life, but he was not prepared to see Ataíde ruin his future career in such a pointless cause.

He was also a little concerned about what might happen in such a duel. Welby was an excellent shot and not a bad swordsman. Paul could not work out who had challenged whom but he was very sure that if Welby fought at all he would be willing to kill his opponent. Paul liked Ataíde and was worried about him.

There was nothing more he could do tonight and he tried to set the problem to one side and focus on Rowena who was fretting to return to her normal activities. They drank wine and played cards for fabulous imaginary sums until he saw her eyelids drooping. Then he led her firmly to their room and she fell asleep almost immediately, curled up in his arms. He lay for a while, appreciating the miracle of her recovery and drifted into sleep more easily than he had expected.

It was still dark when he awoke and he lay still for a moment, his heart pounding. The sound came again; a gentle but definite tap on the door. Paul got up and went to investigate. Stepping into the corridor, he found Jenson, his orderly, wrapped up in his old greatcoat against the cold night.

“Sorry to wake you, sir. Mr Swanson is downstairs. He says it’s urgent.”

Visions of a new outbreak of the deadly camp fever in barracks filled Paul’s mind. He swore softly and slipped back into the room to dress. Rowena stirred in her sleep and murmured his name and he went to kiss her.

“I’m needed in barracks, angel. Go back to sleep.”

When he was dressed he went down into the kitchen where Carl Swanson waited with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Jenson brought another cup for Paul. He sipped the bitter liquid, trying to clear his foggy brain.

“What’s happened, Carl? Is somebody ill?”

“No, sir. Everything is fine in barracks. Look, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you or not but I had a feeling you’d want to know. Nick Barry came in from a night on the town with the news that there’s a duel being fought at dawn today, in the parkland beyond the cathedral.”

Paul was suddenly wide awake. He set down the cup and went to the water jug. Pouring cold water into the bowl he splashed his face, scrubbing at it with his hands to try to drive the remnants of sleep away.

“Where’s Jenson?”

“Gone to the stables, I think.”

“Good. Thank you, Mr Swanson. You can stand down now. Go back to bed.”

“I’m coming with you, sir.”

Paul shook his head decidedly. “Not a chance. I’ve no idea what I’m going to find when I get there but this has the potential to be a very messy scandal and I want the rest of my officers a long way away from it. Jenson will come with me in case I get lost in the dark. Back to barracks, Mr Swanson. That’s an order.”

It was quiet in the streets of Lisbon. The rain had stopped and there was a faint pearly light hovering above them which suggested the first hint of dawn. Paul walked his horse over unpaved and cobbled streets. An occasional lantern lighted a doorway but for the most part it was inky black. He could hear the clinking of harness from Jenson’s horse, riding a little behind him. After a while he realised he could hear something else. He reined in.

“Jenson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How far back is he?”

Jenson twisted his body in the saddle. “I can just about see him, sir.”

“Well I can’t yell from here, I’ll wake up the entire neighbourhood. Ride back and tell him to get up here, will you?”

Jenson obeyed. Within a few minutes, Lieutenant Carl Swanson appeared out of the darkness and walked his horse to where Paul waited. Paul saw his hand move in a salute. He growled.

“Don’t bother, Lieutenant. I can’t fucking see you anyway. Take the lead. Your night vision is better than mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Swanson? When we get there I want you to stay back out of sight. This might be a false alarm and nothing to do with me, but I want you out of it. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

“You are such a bloody liar, Swanson. You’re going to ignore everything I say. As usual.”

The parkland lay just beyond the dark outline of the cathedral. It was not a large area and was heavily wooded, with mostly oak and beech trees. A winding path led between the trees and they went in single file with Carl in the lead. Here there were no lights at all but it was becoming easier to see, which suggested that dawn was not far off. There was no sign of anybody else and Paul wondered if this whole thing was a wild goose chase and if the duel was happening somewhere else or not at all. As he drew closer to a copse of tall pine trees however, he heard a noise and reined in. The other two men stopped on either side of him and they listened.

“It sounds as though Barry was right,” Carl said in matter-of-fact tones.

“Yes.” Paul dismounted and handed the reins to his orderly. “Wait here, both of you. I’ll yell if I need you. Otherwise stay out of sight. I mean it, Mr Swanson.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul walked through the trees, making as little noise as possible. Just before the tree line he stopped and took out his pistol, checking methodically to make sure that it was properly loaded. He was hoping he would not need it but he had no idea what he would find.

As he drew closer he realised that it did not matter how much noise he made. The duel was fully underway. They had chosen swords and the clash of steel on steel was obscenely loud in the still morning air. Paul began to run. They had not waited until full dawn and he wondered how on earth they could see what they were doing in this light.

He broke through the trees and stopped. There was a wide open area, still deeply shadowed. Two men in shirt-sleeves moved swiftly across the damp grass, feet slipping slightly in the dew. He could not see either of them properly but knew them from the height and breadth of the Englishman and the slighter wiry form of the Portuguese. They were both breathing heavily. Neither appeared to notice Paul’s appearance.

Paul did not move. On the far side of the clearing, several horses were tied to the low branches of an oak tree. There were two other men present, both wrapped in heavy cloaks. Paul supposed they must be the seconds, necessary for any affair of honour. There should also have been a surgeon. Paul could see no sign of one, which bothered him, because even in the pre-dawn light he could see blood on one shoulder of Jaime Ataíde’s shirt.

It suggested that there was no agreement that the duel should end at first blood. Paul watched for a moment, trying to work out the best way to intervene. He could fire his pistol into the air, but if one man stopped and the other did not, it could end in murder. He could not shoot at either of the combatants in this poor light or he could end up murdering one of them himself. Exasperated he uncocked his pistol and put it away. He stood poised for a moment, trying desperately to think of a way to end it. Before he could do so however, one of the two spectators looked up and saw him.

Paul made a frantic gesture for silence but he was too late. The man started, opened his mouth and yelled.

“I say, Welby, stand down. Senior officer on the parade ground. You’ll get us all cashiered. It’s over, man.”

Both combatants paused for a moment, but it was Ataíde who looked around. Welby saw his advantage and pressed it without a moment’s hesitation. Paul saw the younger man stagger back and fall as Welby’s blade struck home. There was a spreading stain on the front of his white shirt.

Paul gave a bellow of rage, drew his own sword and leaped forward as if charging a French outpost. Welby was standing over his victim, his sword arm raised as if to strike another blow. He was given no chance. Paul’s blade clanged against his, striking it up. Welby spun around shocked, but he managed to fall into a defensive stance and parry Paul’s second pass. Paul leaped lightly over Ataíde’s body and moved forward, blade extended.

Welby backed up rapidly. It was becoming much lighter now and Paul could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the fear in his eyes. It was not the first time they had fought, though the previous bouts had been many years ago. Theoretically at least, they had been sporting bouts although even in boyhood, Paul had been a far better swordsman. The difference now was greater than ever and Welby knew it.

 He parried once and then twice but had neither the speed nor the skill to manage a third time. Paul’s sword twisted around his and Welby released the hilt with a cry of pain. He fell backwards to the ground, looking up into Paul’s face with an expression of sheer terror. Paul placed the point of his sword at Welby’s throat.

“Check Ataíde,” he said. It was the tone he used on a battlefield and at least one of the two seconds would recognise that it was not to be disobeyed. “Is he alive?”

There was a flurry of movement behind him. Paul remained still. He could hear Welby’s breath coming quick and heavy. He looked as though he was trying to press himself back into the earth to avoid that lethal point.

Nobody spoke for a long moment then Welby croaked:

“Van Daan. It was a fair fight…”

“If you make one more sound, Welby, I’m going to cut your windpipe.”

Welby did not make another sound. After what seemed forever to Paul, a calm voice behind him said:

“He’s alive, sir. Could do with a surgeon, mind, but Mr Swanson is stemming the bleeding. Best come and have a look at him yourself.”

“Presently, Jenson.” Paul lowered the point very gently until it pricked Welby’s throat. A tiny red spot appeared. Welby whimpered.

“I hope you’re praying, Welby, though right now you need to do it silently. In a minute I’m going to let you up. You’re going to get on your horse, ride back to town and arrange your passage home. No need to speak to Sir John Cradock, I’ll let him know and he can decide what to pass on to your commanding officer.

“Of course all of this depends on Lieutenant Ataíde staying alive. His future career has some value to me, which means that you might possibly get to salvage yours. I’ve no wish for him to lose his commission because you’re a spiteful bastard who doesn’t know how to behave. If you’re unlucky and he dies, I’m coming after you. Now get to your feet.”

He watched as Welby staggered up. His friend came forward nervously to help him on with his jacket and coat. Paul said nothing until Welby turned towards the horses. Then he raised his voice again.

“One more thing, Welby. As far as I’m aware, you frightened the life out of that poor woman. Thanks to Ataíde, it wasn’t worse. You owe him for that. But if I find out at any point that I’m wrong and that you did more to her than I think you did, I’m coming to find you and you won’t need a court martial because I am going to cut off your balls and feed them to you for breakfast. And you really need to believe that I will. Now fuck off and don’t let me see your face again.”

The sun was making an appearance now, with streaks of pink, orange and gold streaming across the sky. Paul went to where Carl was holding a wadded handkerchief to Ataíde’s chest. It was stained red but Paul thought that the bleeding seemed to be slowing. He hoped no internal damage had been done. Ataíde was conscious and breathing slowly as if he was trying to minimise the pain.

“Where’s the bloody surgeon?” Paul muttered.

“There isn’t one,” Carl said grimly. “Welby was supposed to arrange it, or rather his second was. Either they didn’t do it or the man didn’t show up. That poor lad is one of Ataíde’s friends in the militia. He’s terrified and speaks no English or French but Ataíde has just asked him to ride for help. I can’t see how we can get him out of here discreetly though.”

“I’d settle for alive,” Paul said. “Jenson, in case the boy runs like a rabbit, would you…”

“There’s a carriage coming, sir.”

Paul turned and watched as the vehicle made its way slowly up the track and stopped at the edge of the clearing. A groom went to let down the steps and opened the door and a woman in a dark cloak erupted from the carriage and raced across the grass. She dropped to her knees beside Ataíde and took his hand in hers, speaking to him soothingly in Portuguese.

Paul observed for a moment but realised that his caution was wholly unnecessary. There were no hysterics. After what sounded like a brief practical interrogation, the young woman got up and began calling instructions to her servants to carry the young officer to the carriage.

It was only then that Paul recognised her. “Senhorita Guida?”

She turned to him with astonishing calm and to his surprise addressed him in simple but understandable French.

“Major van Daan. Thank you for taking care of him for me. I am so angry that he did this. Fortunately I had paid his servant to inform me if he did anything so foolish. When he is well enough I shall give him my opinion of a man who fights a duel without a doctor present.”

Paul studied her and realised that he had been wrong on a number of counts. All of them delighted him.

“I wish I could be there to hear you,” he said wistfully. “Will you send a message when he is well enough to receive visitors? And please assure him that no word of this will spread through my agency. You might want to think about what kind of illness keeps him to his bed for a week or two.”

“I expect it is the winter fever. It is rife at Christmas time and he lives in a damp room with no heat. My mother insists that he is our guest until he recovers.”

She had thought it through and did not need his advice. Paul felt a growing appreciation for this girl. He bowed.

“An excellent idea. I’ll visit when he’s no longer infectious. My congratulations, ma’am. I’m so glad my friend turned out to be as intelligent as I thought he was. He’s made an excellent choice of wife. Does he know it yet?”

Amber eyes flashed with amusement. “Not precisely,” she said. “But I think he soon will. Good morning, Major. Thank you for everything.”

***

London, 1809

They dined in the quiet elegance of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s London club. The news of the successful outcome of the Cintra inquiry had spread rapidly and various gentlemen, both military and civilian, stopped to murmur their congratulations both on his exoneration and the news of his appointment to command the British forces in Portugal. Some of them also took the time to commiserate with him on the loss of Sir John Moore, who had died on the field at Corunna after a disastrous winter retreat had wreaked havoc on his army.

Wellesley had summoned Paul from his family home in Leicestershire, where he had been busy re-equipping the survivors of Moore’s campaign and recruiting men to replace the dead. There were too many dead.

They talked for a while of the coming year; of plans and logistics and the political situation in Europe. Despite the misery of the past months Paul was excited by the prospect of a new campaign. Listening to Wellesley describing some of his meetings at Horse Guards, he was reminded of something.

“What about the Portuguese troops, sir? You said that you’ve turned down the command of their army.”

“I have. I cannot possibly do everything, it would be ridiculous.”

“I agree although I’m astonished to hear you say so.”

Wellesley gave him a look. “I have recommended Beresford for the job. He’s been in Madeira but I believe he’s on his way to Lisbon now. He’ll do well on the diplomatic side, he’s a damned good soldier and I can work with him.”

“He’s an excellent choice, sir.” Paul paused, giving Wellesley a thoughtful look. “I presume he’ll have his own men in mind for his staff. All the same, I was wondering…”

Wellesley looked surprised and then gave what looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Major van Daan, are you about to ask a favour for a friend? That is very unlike you.”

“It is, isn’t it? Generally I can manage my own nepotism, I don’t need to ask for your help. On this occasion though, the gentleman is a Portuguese officer. He’s a lieutenant at present, about my age and he should have a captaincy at the very least. I’d say he would be a very good combat officer and he can’t wait to get back to his company, but there’s a lot more to him than that. He’s formidably intelligent, a good diplomat and speaks fluent French, some Spanish and has been learning English very successfully. He’s also courageous and resourceful. He was carted off by Bonaparte with the elite troops of the Portuguese Legion last year but managed to get away in the Pyrenees and got himself back to Lisbon.”

Wellesley’s interest had sharpened. “Why have I not met this man?”

“Because by the time he was back and fit enough for company, you’d been packed off to England.”

“What is his family background?”

Paul managed not to roll his eyes. Lineage would always matter to Wellesley although he was gradually learning to occasionally respect talent in men of more humble birth.

“Minor aristocracy. As is his wife. She’s even more formidable than he is; personally I’d employ both of them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Major. What possible use could a well-born female be in an army camp? What is his name?”

“Ataíde. Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde.”

Wellesley reached into his pocket for his note tablets and pencil and scrawled the name. “I have to write to Beresford tomorrow; I have a list of questions and instructions. I will tell him about this paragon and that your judgement is to be trusted in such matters as this. Now. Tell me about your recruitment. How many companies can you pull together for me?”

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