She moved with deliberate care, removing the items one by one, laying them in tidy bundles across the groundsheet, until at last the portmanteau was empty, or so it seemed. Then she pressed at the rear left-hand corner of the portmanteau and smoothly lifted away the false floor. Beneath it, spread in neat piles over the entirety of the base of the portmanteau, as if a single uniform layer, were notebooks.
Each book was backed in a soft paper cover of a deep pinky-red coloration; some were faded, others stained. Josie picked one from the closest corner and opened it. The white of the pages was scarcely visible beneath the pale grey pencil script that covered it. She checked the date at the top right-hand side of the page—21st June 1807—closed the book, set it back in its place in the pile, moved on to the next, until she found the book that contained the date for which she was searching.
The false floor was slotted back into position. The bundles of clothes were returned in neat order to the portmanteau, as was every other item that had been removed. The lid was carefully closed, the key turned within the locks and the straps rebuckled. Only then did Josie make herself comfortable upon the wooden chair and sit down at Captain Dammartin’s little table to lay the notebook upon its surface. She adjusted the direction of the light within the lantern and, taking a deep breath, began to read her father’s journal for the Battle of Oporto.
Josie could barely concentrate on Molyneux’s chatter the next day, for thinking of the words that her father had written. Dammartin had been correct in saying that his father had been captured by hers. It was true, too, that the French major had been paroled, but that is where any similarity between the two stories ended. Lieutenant Colonel Mallington’s telling of the two men’s meeting could not have contrasted more sharply with Dammartin’s.
Her papa had written of respect and admiration between two men who happened to be fighting on opposite sides of a war. Those faded grey words conveyed an underlying sense of something bordering on friendship.
Why should there be such a discrepancy between the two accounts? It made no sense. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that there was something very strange about such a blatant contradiction. And she longed to question Dammartin more on his story.
Who was the man who claimed to have witnessed the murder? Someone honourable, who was beyond reproach, Dammartin had said.
She glanced ahead to where the French Captain rode, her eyes skimming his broad shoulders, and the sway of the long, black mane of horsehair that hung from his helmet. She wanted to show him the journal entry, to prove to him that he was wrong, to show him that her father was indeed an innocent man, but she could not.
Trust was a fickle thing, and Dammartin was still the enemy. Even had she torn that single page from its binding so that he might have read only that and nothing else, then he would have known that the journals were in her possession and she knew that Dammartin would not stop until he had them from her.
Her teeth worried at her lower lip, and she knew that she dare not approach him again, no matter how many questions still burned unanswered. Last night had been too close for comfort, in more ways than one. The memory of his face so close to hers, of his breath warm against her cheek, of the dark, dangerous look in his eyes…and how very close he had come to discovering that all of her father’s journals were here under his very nose.
‘Your thoughts are elsewhere this morning, mademoiselle.’ Molyneux smiled that kind smile of his, making Josie feel guilty at her inattention.
‘Forgive me, Lieutenant, I am but a little tired.’
‘You did not sleep well?’ he enquired with concern.
She gave a small shake of her head. ‘Not since Telemos.’
‘I am sorry, mademoiselle. I did not mean to raise such distressing memories.’ His smile was small and wry. ‘We should talk of happier times, especially as I, too, am feeling a little sad this day.’
Josie glanced up at him with questioning eyes.
‘I confess to you alone, mademoiselle, and you must keep a very great secret, that I am missing my wife most dreadfully.’
‘I did not know that you are married, sir,’ said Josie.
‘I do not often speak of Mariette. It makes me too emotional, and that is not good for a lieutenant in the Emperor’s army.’
Josie felt her heart soften for the poor lieutenant. ‘I think it is most commendable that you miss her.’
‘We have been married for three years,’ he said, ‘and we have two fine sons.’ He smiled at that.
‘Would it be of help if you were to speak of your family, sir?’
‘I think, perhaps, mademoiselle, that it might.’
So Molyneux told her of his boys and how he missed them. He told her of Mariette and how he had courted her despite her father’s disregard for a mere military man. They laughed over the antics that two-year-old Louis got up to, and then Lieutenant Molyneux grew sad when he spoke of how tiny the baby, Dominique, had been when last he had seen him, and how in the months that had since passed that the baby would have grown beyond all recognition. He was trying to keep his emotion in check, but she could hear the wistful longing in his voice and it tugged at her heartstrings.
Impulsively she reached over and briefly touched her hand to his sleeve. ‘You must not be sad, sir. Your family would not wish it so and I am sure that you will see them soon.’
‘Yes.’ But there was nothing of hope in the word. He gave a sigh and then seemed to pull himself from his reverie. ‘Now you understand, mademoiselle.’ He forced a smile to his face.
She could see the slight sheen of tears in his eyes and knew that he would not want the embarrassment of having her see them. ‘Indeed, I do, sir,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should speak of other matters.’ She smiled. ‘The weather has been uncommonly fine of late. Do you think that it will hold?’
He laughed at that and she could see that the sadness had left his eyes. ‘You English always speak of the weather. It is a national interest, I think.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I think it probably is.’
They rode in companionable silence for a little, and Josie was just thinking how pleasant Lieutenant Molyneux was when a small and rather daring idea popped into her head. ‘Would you mind if I were to ask you something of a rather delicate nature, Lieutenant?’
‘But of course, you must ask,’ he replied.
‘It concerns the death of Captain Dammartin’s father.’
Molyneux’s face betrayed a fleeting surprise. ‘What is it that you wish to know, mademoiselle?’
‘I understand that there is a man who claims to have witnessed the—’ She broke off and quickly revised her words. ‘To have witnessed Major Dammartin’s death.’
‘That is the case.’
‘I was wondering if you knew the identity of that man.’
Molyneux’s grey eyes met hers. There was the jangle of harnesses, and the steady clop of horses’ hooves. ‘Why do you ask such a question?’
‘I wish to know the name of the man who is responsible for falsely accusing my father of murder.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ said Molyneux softly.
‘My father is innocent, Lieutenant, and he is dead,’ she said in justification of her request. ‘There is no one else to defend his name.’
Concern and pity welled in Molyneux’s eyes, and all she could think of was showing Molyneux that such pity was unjustified, that her father really was innocent. ‘Do not think that I am misled because he was my father. He is innocent, sir, and I have the evidence that will prove it.’
Molyneux stared at her.
‘Will you tell me the man’s name, Lieutenant?’
Molyneux looked away and with a gentle sigh, shook his head.
‘You do not trust me?’
‘It is not that,’ Molyneux said quietly. ‘Then what?’
He looked back round at her. ‘I fear that you will find only sadness if you follow this path.’
‘No,’ she said with d
etermination, ‘you are quite wrong in that.’
He gave a wry smile, and they continued on in silence.
Dammartin saw the way in which Mademoiselle Mallington looked at Molyneux, saw too the brief touch of fingers against his arm before he turned away again. She was Mallington’s daughter, a prisoner, so what did it matter to Dammartin if she flirted with his lieutenant? he thought. Did he not want to be rid of her in Ciudad Rodrigo as soon as was possible? She was nothing to him, just as he had told La Roque.
But Dammartin was not fooling himself. He wanted her, and though he was adamant that he would not act upon it, nothing that he did seemed to alter that desire.
He longed to cup those pale, perfect breasts, to span his hands around the narrowness of her waist, to slide his fingers over the swell of her hips. And those lips…so ripe for the tasting, and he remembered the kiss, and how it had served only to stoke his hunger for her higher. The feel of her long hair beneath his fingers, the clean lavender scent of her, her very softness…
Last night, in the darkness by the river, with her wrists imprisoned in his, he had come close to kissing her again, to claiming her sweet mouth with his own. His lips had been so close that they tingled to kiss away the pain of her bruises. It had been an enormous effort of willpower not to succumb to temptation.
He thought of the excitement that had stirred in his blood when she had said that she wanted to speak to him of her father. The flair of hope that she would tell him what he so longed to know: the workings of a madman’s mind. But Josephine Mallington had wanted only to argue her father’s innocence, and he supposed that that was an admirable thing.
She was young, her father’s only daughter, and he thought what she had told him of following her father around the world, of the death of her mother. It could not have been easy to learn the truth of her father, that he was not the beloved hero she thought him. No wonder she fought so hard for the old man. Dammartin knew he would have done the very same for his own father.
He wondered what Mallington had written in his journal about Oporto and Jean Dammartin. And he wondered, too, as to Josephine Mallington’s reaction when he had asked about the journals. What was she so frightened of revealing if the journals were safely stowed in England? Dammartin thought of his own current campaign journal locked within the drawer of his small campaign desk, and of his journals from previous years stored at the bottom of his portmanteau…and he smiled at Mademoiselle Mallington’s audacity.
Chapter Eight
It was after they had stopped for a lunch break that the rain started. It was not like English rain that came on slowly enough to give a person time to hurry to cover, or put an umbrella above their head. This was Portuguese rain and it was as if God had decided to operate a pump stand in the heavens. The rain poured suddenly upon them in a great deluge and that is the way it stayed for the next few hours. Molyneux offered her the great cape that covered over him and his horse, but Josie refused it.
The rain penetrated everywhere and at a speed at which she could never have guessed. She had never seen such a torrential downpour from the heavens in all of her life. Josie’s hat was soon a sorry, sodden affair that dripped water down her face. Her gloves were wet and her hands were so cold that she ceased to feel her fingers. She could feel the water trickling between the toes of her stockings within her boots. But she made no complaint, just kept her thoughts focused on the strange mystery surrounding Dammartin’s father’s death. When her mind was fixed on that, Josie felt infinitely better, for then she could not dwell upon what had happened in Telemos, or the bandit’s attack, or her worries over what would become of her.
Water dripped from her nose, ran in rivulets down her cheeks, and blurred her vision, and through it all, Josie thought on the words in her father’s journal. The road became muddy and great puddles appeared that slowed the horses’ progress. Troopers’ shouts sounded from the rear of their column, an animal’s scream of pain, and with an exchange of looks, both Dammartin and his lieutenant disappeared to investigate—leaving Josie alone. What she would have given for such a situation only a few days ago, but much had happened since then, and any chance of escape had long gone. They were too far into hostile countryside, too far from the British and too close to bandits. And aside from all of that, she knew now with an absolute certainty that Dammartin would not rest until he had hauled her back.
The French escort struggled on, and the only sound was the slop of hooves against the mud, and the constant lash of rain and wind.
They had not yet reached Sabugal when they pitched the tents, but the men could go no farther even though the rain’s intensity had lessened. Josie sheltered beneath some trees and watched the speed and efficiency with which Dammartin’s dragoons operated even after a day’s march through the worst rainstorm imaginable. The men were cold and wet, and completely disciplined. Josie watched in amazement. She had never felt less disciplined in her life. Her clothes clung to her like a heavy, cold shroud, and there was not one vestige of warmth left in the whole of her body. Her nose was running and even the handkerchiefs from her pocket were sodden. She longed for shelter, for dry clothes, for warmth. Overhead the sky was dark with cloud and the promise of more rain. Night would come early.
Across from her tent there seemed to be some kind of altercation. Two dragoons were talking, gesturing with their hands. Dammartin was frowning and firing questions at the men, with Molyneux seemingly involved. Sergeant Lamont stood looking on from the background. There was much pointing at Josie’s tent, then back at the place where the mules were clustered. The men looked over at where Josie stood, and she knew that whatever they were discussing involved her.
The dragoons went about their business, and Dammartin began to walk across the field towards her. His caped greatcoat was so long that it touched to the ground. The grey wool was dark and saturated. The long, black crest of horse hair of his helmet hung sodden and lank. Water dripped from his face, and around his face his hair clung dark and wet. She could hear the squelch of his boots in the mud, and his scar etched dark and deep against the pallor of his cheek.
Dread gathered in her stomach and she knew that something was wrong.
‘Captain?’
‘Mademoiselle.’ His face was grim.
Her stomach clenched tighter. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’
‘I am afraid that there is a problem. Your portmanteau, it cannot be found.’
She stared at him, hardly fathoming the import of his words. ‘But it was attached to the officers’ mule train. Two of your troopers took it this morning as normal. I saw them load it myself.’
‘It is not there now. I have instructed my men to search again through all of the baggage, but I am not hopeful.’
The realisation of what he was saying hit home. The breath stilled in her throat, her eyes looked up at him wide and round. ‘No, it cannot be.’
‘I am afraid it is true.’
She bit at her lower lip. ‘It has been stolen.’
‘We do not yet know if that is the case.’
‘Of course it has been stolen,’ she cried. ‘What other explanation could there be?’ And she thought of her father’s journals stacked so neatly within their hiding place within the portmanteau…now in French hands.
‘Oh, God!’ She felt a horrible sick sensation heavy in her stomach.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said.
‘What am I to do?’ she whispered, as if to herself. ‘What on earth am I to do?’ She clutched a hand to her mouth.
‘We shall find you some dry clothing and blankets.’
‘No, no!’ She shook her head. ‘You do not understand!’
‘Calm yourself, Mademoiselle Mallington.’
But Josie barely heard him, for all she could think of was that she had lost the one thing that remained of her father, the thing that she had been entrusted to keep safe, lost to the enemy. And she could say not one word of the truth of it to Dammartin.
‘Thank God that I�
��’ She broke off. ‘Please excuse me, Captain,’ she said, and turning, ran to her tent, before she could betray herself any further.
Josie sat for what seemed a long time at the small table within the tent, trying to tell herself that there was every likelihood that the thief would not find the hidden compartment within her portmanteau. The journals might be lost, but that did not necessarily mean that the French had found them. She focused on that one small hope and sat motionless upon the wooden chair, just breathing, until all of her panic had gone.
Only when she was calm did she notice that she was shivering. The rainwater from her sodden cloak had seeped through her dress and underwear to touch damp and cold upon her skin, and Josie knew she must try to dry and warm herself. With a sigh she began to peel off her clothing. First came the woollen hat pulled so unflatteringly on her head, next, her woollen mittens and finally her leather gloves. Her fingers were stiff and slow to move, so she took her time, peeling the saturated leather covers off each finger with patience. Her cloak and pelisse followed, being dropped onto the growing pile of sodden material that was gathering by the tent’s flap. Her boots took some time to unlace as her fingers would not bend well and she could scarcely untie the knots in her laces, but she persevered and soon the boots and stockings, too, lay on top of the pile.
She then unfastened the tent flap, knelt by the opening and worked her way methodically through the pile of clothes wringing out each item as dry as she could make it. When she had finished she closed the flap, stripped off her dress, petticoats and shift and hid her nakedness beneath her newly wrung-out cloak. She then repeated the wringing operation with her dress and undergarments. She wrung out her hair, and emptied her boots. Finally she slipped back into her shift and dress, and spread the rest of her clothing out across the floor so that it might have some chance of drying. She had just finished this when a woman’s voice sounded outside the tent flap. ‘Señorita Mallington?’
The Captain's Forbidden Miss Page 12
