by Lynn Bryant
***
By the time Lord Wellington marched out of Madrid towards the fortress town of Burgos, Anne was in no further doubt about her pregnancy. Experience had taught her the value of planning ahead and she spent some time searching for a suitable travelling carriage for when she would be unable to ride. In the past, Lord Wellington had often put his own carriage at Anne's disposal, but she could not rely on it always being available. Anne had just made the purchase when her husband informed her it would not immediately be needed.
"We're staying here," he said. "Wellington is leaving the light division in Madrid and the third and fourth divisions close by under Hill. He's taking the rest of the army to invest Burgos."
Anne studied him, wondering how he felt. In the past, Lord Wellington had always chosen to have Paul with him. "Would you rather be going with him?" she asked.
"No," Paul said briefly. He had dined with Wellington and some of the other commanders on the previous evening. "Firstly, because remaining here during your pregnancy will suit me very well and secondly because I hate storming a town, and if he's decided the light division has done enough of that this year, you are not going to see me arguing. I think, to tell you the truth, that he's leaving his three best and most experienced divisions to recover because he expects another major engagement before the end of the year and he wants us fully fit for that."
"I think he has a point," Anne said. "The hospitals are full of sick men. It's infuriating; so many of the reinforcements they're sending out are already ill. Did you hear about the 43rd?"
"No."
"Apparently, a draft of around two hundred reinforcements with sixteen officers landed in Lisbon recently. Most of them will get no further, they're either in hospital sick or have died on the march. Some kind of fever."
"Christ, that's worse than our last draft," Paul said.
Anne was watching him. She could sense that he was unhappy although she had no idea why. "So what is it, Paul?"
Her husband smiled. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I've just been talking to Andrew and John about it. Colonel Barnard informs me that I am like a nursemaid worrying about her charge going on an excursion without her. Cheeky bastard; he'll be lucky to make it to the next battle."
Anne dissolved into laughter. "I think Andrew Barnard might have a point, Paul. I'm surprised Lord Wellington hasn't asked you to go with him as an observer as he did at Badajoz the first time." Anne caught her husband's expression and stopped. "He has, hasn't he?"
Paul shook his head. "Not exactly. He admitted that he'd like me to be there, but he wants me in Madrid rather more."
"Discipline?" Anne guessed.
"Yes. He doesn't want whichever division he leaves in Madrid to disgrace the army with outbreaks of looting. Particularly since they've not been paid. He's trusting Charles Alten and I to make sure they behave. Which reminds me, we're invited to dinner this evening; Andrew wants to show off his new cook."
"Colonel Barnard has a new cook? I very much doubt he'll be as good as George Kelly."
"Andrew thinks he might. He's French, Andrew took him prisoner at Salamanca. Apparently before he was conscripted he was a cook. I believe Andrew gave him the choice of an English prison camp or a new posting and he took it without a second thought; he didn't enjoy killing people. Or risking his own life, I'm guessing. It was an ingenious idea, I must say. I wish I'd thought of it when I was talking to Yves Roche, we could have had a brigade artist."
"A cook is probably more useful, but I appreciate that I've married a cultured man," Anne said, kissing him lightly. "You seem on very good terms with your fellow brigade commanders these days, love, I must say I approve. Do you think they'll make Colonel Barnard permanent?"
"I've no idea, but I hope so. He was a lieutenant-colonel before I was, and both Beckwith and Drummond were no higher when they commanded brigades. You're right, I get on well with both of them which is why I hope Andrew stays. As for Wellington and Burgos...I'm sure it will be fine. I just worry that there are so many things that could go wrong. It feels so safe here, so secure. Almost as if we were back in Lisbon. But..."
"But we are not," Anne said gently and Paul shook his head.
"No, we're not. There are French armies all around us, Nan, some at a fair distance, I'll admit. But if they manage to combine, we could find ourselves in trouble. However, that's for the commander-in-chief to worry about, he's paid more than I am. If any of us ever get paid at all. In the meantime, since I am a man of private means and an unexpected amount of leisure time, I intend to take my beautiful wife shopping to ensure that she is better equipped for pregnancy that on the previous occasion. Come along."
***
Simon Carlyon rejoined his company before the end of August and was welcomed back with obvious pleasure by his fellow officers. Captain Lewis was unwell, laid up with the summer fever which had depleted Wellington's army for weeks, so Simon and Nicholas Witham shared company duties between them. After several weeks of idleness, Colonel van Daan had declared the holiday over, and had begun drilling and training in the huge park which surrounded the Marina Palace and the military school. With some of his doubts assuaged, Simon threw himself into the process with new enthusiasm. He was beginning to get to know his men and their capabilities and it was a challenge to work with them on learning new skills.
While Simon had been absent with the 94th, Nicholas had struck up a friendship with several of the officers of the 110th, particularly Captain Leo Manson with his two lieutenants, Denny and Ashford, Captain Zouch of the seventh company and Kerr, Heron and Lloyd from the eighth. Manson was one of the youngest of the group but tended to take the lead. He was not an exuberant personality but he carried an unconscious authority that Simon rather envied. It was clear that he enjoyed a close relationship with Colonel van Daan and his wife, which meant that his friends were often invited to balls and receptions as part of the headquarters party.
None of the young officers with whom Simon was friendly were wealthy; some lived purely on their pay and since that was several months late, there was nothing extravagant about their lifestyle. It suited Simon very well to play cards for pennies, share a cheap bottle of wine outside a common tavern and accept dinner invitations from local families who seemed never to tire of entertaining Wellington's officers. Simon learned Spanish dances and ate paella on rough wooden tables outside cheerful inns. His Spanish improved, he grew lean and brown and fit from long days training in the late summer sun, and he found himself forgetting sometimes that war was a reality, that French armies might well converge on Madrid at any time and that he and his friends were by no means invincible.
Simon met Valentina at an impromptu dance in one of the city squares, following a religious parade to celebrate a saint that Simon had never heard of. She was slender and pretty, with a wealth of red-gold hair and a smile which lit up the night, and Simon had no idea that she was married; he had not troubled to ask during their passionate encounter in the darkness of a small park. When he discovered the existence of Valentina's middle-aged, gout-ridden husband, Simon felt a pang of guilt which was quickly forgotten in the joy of every stolen moment. He inveigled invitations to every ball or reception she was likely to attend, and when he could not do so, he became an expert at sneaking in, finding even a dance with her worth the risk. She wrote him love notes on scented paper and sent him gifts of local delicacies and expensive wine, which Simon's friends fell upon with enthusiasm.
"Is she paying you in wine, Carlyon?" Captain Zouch enquired, sampling the glass Simon had poured for him. "If so, I hope you're making it worth her while, this is not cheap."
"He's taking a leaf out of Captain Manson's book," Ashford said with a laugh. "His girlfriend is very generous. Mine always expect me to pay for it, I'm doing something wrong."
"Possibly being an arsehole, Ashford," Manson said, coming into the room. Simon masked a grin as Ashford coloured to the roots of his hair. "Have we had a conversation before about my love life being
none of your business?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought we had. Strive to remember it, I don't want to have to punch you." Manson took the glass from Ashford and drank. "It's bloody good, though, is she stealing it out of her husband's wine cellar?"
"I've not asked," Simon said.
Manson regarded him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure you've actually spoken to her much at all, have you, Mr Carlyon? Look - I do understand. It's very easy to get carried away. But I've been making some discreet enquiries. Old Cabrera is a mean bastard and as jealous as hell of that girl. If he gets wind of what you're up to with her, you're going to be in a lot of trouble."
"We're very careful," Simon said.
"You're not bloody careful, you irresponsible idiot, half the light division knows about it and the other half soon will. God help you when our colonel finds out. He's trying hard to keep the Spanish happy and that doesn't include sleeping with their wives. If you've got any sense you'll end it before he hears about it."
Simon knew that Manson was right. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable about Valentina. He had begun the affair light-heartedly, without giving much thought to anything other than Valentina's beauty and the pleasure she gave him, but he was beginning to feel guilty, not so much about her unpleasant husband but about the girl herself. She had clearly become very attached to him and although she must know that the relationship had no future, he did not want to hurt her.
Simon was still wrestling with his decision when he attended a ball, given by one of Madrid's leading merchant associations. It was a glittering affair, and no invitation had been extended to the junior officers of the light division, but by now, Simon and Nicholas had become experts at finding an unlocked door or window, and in the throng of British, Spanish and Portuguese uniforms they had never been challenged. The ball was crowded, and Simon went in search of Valentina and found her without her husband as usual. Valentina found a partner for Nicholas, a shy child barely out of the schoolroom, who seemed dazzled to be dancing with a British officer, and Simon led Valentina onto the floor.
She refused him a second dance as she always did in public, although the pressure of her hand told Simon that she was hoping for more than a dance before the evening ended. Simon waited for Nicholas to join him, his brain turning over possible opportunities for an assignation, when a voice poured icy water over his amorous intentions.
"Your pardon, sir, but I do not know you. Were you invited to this entertainment?"
Simon froze, staring at the tall, thin Spaniard, dressed in an elaborate military uniform dripping with gold braid and medals. Instinctively he saluted; he had no idea of the man's rank but he was clearly senior. Behind the Spanish officer, Simon saw Nicholas, stopping dead in his tracks as he realised what was happening. Simon sought frantically for an intelligent response.
"Do you not speak Spanish?" the officer said pleasantly, switching to English. "Your pardon, Lieutenant. Will you tell me...?"
"Simon, there you are," a voice said warmly, and Simon turned his head. "And I see Mr Witham was able to make it too; I am so pleased. General Torres, forgive me, these gentlemen are with our party but were delayed by military duties. May I introduce my brother-in-law from my first marriage, Lieutenant Simon Carlyon and his good friend Lieutenant Nicholas Witham."
General Torres took Anne van Daan's extended hand and kissed it. "Your pardon, Señora, I had not realised. Welcome, gentlemen. I am so glad you have arrived in time for supper. This way."
Simon saluted again. He was determinedly not looking at the party to which he supposedly belonged, but he was painfully aware that it included not only Colonel van Daan and his wife, but every single senior officer of the light division, including General Charles Alten, its commander. Simon stood back to allow his seniors to pass ahead of him, and felt a hand descend upon his shoulder.
"This way, Mr Carlyon. You too, Mr Witham. I believe there are fireworks after supper, which you should try to enjoy as much as possible. Tomorrow may be less of a treat for you."
***
It rained for the following three days, a miserable introduction to autumn. The light division huddled within doors, staring out at the grey skies, grateful that their exacting commander had cancelled drill and training.
Colonel van Daan's leniency did not extend to Lieutenants Carlyon and Witham or the men of their company. Simon knew that the colonel could not possibly have arranged the weather personally when he invited them into his office and genially gave them their orders, but he certainly gave the impression that the downpour delighted him.
"Night march," he said briefly. "Full kit, your whole company. I've sketched the route out for you, it's around ten miles."
Simon saluted and took the paper in glum silence. Nicholas said hesitantly:
"Permission to speak, sir?"
"Don't waste your breath on an apology, Mr Witham, I wasn't the person you insulted by turning up at a party you were not invited to. Thanks to my wife's peerless social skills, an embarrassing incident was avoided. I'm hoping a nice run in the fresh air with your company for the next two nights will remind you of your manners."
"Yes, sir, but I still wanted to apologise. Only - it doesn't seem fair on the men."
"No, it isn't," the colonel said bluntly. "Having an imbecile for an officer gets men killed and that is bloody unfair, I've seen a fair few examples of it during my time in the army. What you do affects your men. They know that. You ought to know it, neither of you are greenhorns. If you've forgotten it, hopefully this will remind you."
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Mr Witham, you are dismissed, wait outside, please."
When the door had closed, Simon stood to attention, staring at a portrait on the wall behind the colonel's desk. Eventually, the colonel said:
"It's over, Mr Carlyon."
"Sir?"
"Your passionate idyll with Señora Cabrera. In future, you will attend the parties you are invited to and no others and you will keep your dick in your breeches or save it for the brothel or you are going to find yourself confined to your quarters for the rest of our stay in Madrid. Please do not insult me by pretending that you do not know what I'm talking about."
"Sir." Simon could think of nothing to say. He was shocked to realise how relieved he was to have the decision taken out of his hands, and the thought made him feel immensely, guilty. "Yes, sir. Of course. But I ought to tell her myself."
"That isn't possible, Mr Carlyon. Dismissed."
Simon felt slightly sick but did not move. "Sir, please. I know it was wrong of me, but I'm fond of her and I know she feels the same way. I'll make sure we're chaperoned; Nick will do it. I just..."
"God give me strength, he is clearly about as much use as a chaperone as that bust of Bonaparte. Less, actually, since I'd find his ugly face fairly off-putting."
"But, sir..."
"You can't see her," the colonel snapped. "You can't see her, because she has been removed under heavy escort to her husband's country house to the west of Madrid, and she probably wouldn't want to see you anyway. My wife tried to get in there this morning on pretext of a morning call and was turned away, but Mrs Carter, who accompanied her, was told quietly by the maids that she has two black eyes and a split lip, and those are probably only the injuries that show, so she won't be fit for company for a while."
Simon felt a wave of nausea. "No," he said. "Oh no. I'll bloody kill him."
"No, you won't. You'll do what you ought to have done in the first place and leave the poor girl alone, she's got enough problems. You can't challenge a Spanish civilian because he disciplined his wife; according to law he has every right to do so. He could, of course, challenge you for sleeping with her, but he won't because he wants to be on the right side of the British; he's a merchant with goods to sell. Also, he's a coward, so he'll ignore you and take it out on her. It's what they do."
Simon froze. He had forgotten temporarily that he was speaking to a very senior officer. "You're
talking about my brother, aren't you?" he asked.
Paul van Daan looked at him for a long time from troubled blue eyes. Then he said:
"Yes. But I shouldn't be. It still makes me angry after all this time, but it's not your fault. I'm sorry, Mr Carlyon. Go on, get out of here."
Simon did not move. "Is that what he did to her?" he asked. His voice sounded odd in his own ears.
"Yes," the colonel said quietly. "More than once. He also punched her in the stomach and throttled her so hard he left bruises that she used to cover up with a scarf. When he was really angry, he held her down and beat her with a riding whip. It left a couple of scars."
Simon closed his eyes. He had never wanted to think about Robert's reported abuse of his wife. He thought about it now, and he felt, to his horror, hot tears behind his closed eyelids. "I can't believe he did that to her," he whispered. "Why would he do that to her?"
Unexpectedly, Simon felt a hand gentle on his shoulder. "Sit," the colonel said. "Here, drink this. I'm sorry, this was supposed to be a routine bollocking for getting yourself into the kind of scrape that most young officers get into at some point. I hadn't intended it to turn into a conversation about your brother."
Simon drank the brandy. He could think of nothing more to say and his colonel did not seem to require it. They sat in oddly companionable silence for a while. Eventually, the colonel set down his glass.
"Go and find Nicholas," he said gently. "Have a drink, go to dinner and forget about this. Take your punishment and remember it the next time you're tempted. It'll make you a better person. Trust me, I know."
Simon rose. "Why didn't you kill him?" he asked.
"Because I didn't know. She lied to me to protect my good name and my career. By the time I found out exactly how bad it had been, he was already dead. Simon, there is no way to make any of this any easier for you. But for God's sake don't agonise about it any more than you can help. You're not Robert, you're nothing like him. Señor Cabrera is. I would like to blow his fucking head off for what he's done to that girl, but I can't, I don't have the right. And nor do you. The kindest thing you can do for her is leave her alone."
