The Captain's Forbidden Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  Lieutenant Molyneux was sitting outside altering some tack for his horse. He nodded good morning, but did not speak.

  Dammartin was over speaking to a small group of dragoons. He gave no sign of having seen her.

  Josie stood there.

  Molyneux kept his head bent, concentrating on his task in hand. Men arrived and began to remove the furniture and baggage, first from the officers’ tent and then from her own. They cast looks of overt interest towards her and their lieutenant, but what they said was a low murmur and could not be heard. She walked over and waited by her horse. All around her men worked to deconstruct their camp, to ready themselves and their mounts. No one spoke to her. She waited alone, the men leaving a wide space around her.

  Josie adjusted the strap of the leather satchel that still hung around her. It did not need to be adjusted, but she felt so uncomfortable, just standing there, that it made her feel better to pretend to be doing something. The satchel was adjusted and lay against her hip. And still Josie waited.

  At last Molyneux came to set up his mount. She caught his eye, but he just murmured, ‘Mademoiselle,’ and looked away.

  A little seed of dread sprouted in her stomach. For all of the discomfort of facing the men of the 8th this morning, of facing Molyneux, she knew something far worse was coming. She could feel it in her bones. She turned her face to the little horse, and taking off her gloves, began to stroke its smooth neck. Her fingers rubbed at the soft muzzle.

  ‘Fleur,’ she whispered softly, and was glad when the mare blew softly against her fingers and licked at her hand. She did not look again at Molyneux or the men around her, but kept her focus fixed solely on the little horse. Something brushed against her shoulder, warm breath blew against her, and something moist nuzzled against her neck. Josie gave a yelp of surprise.

  ‘Dante!’ She turned to find Dammartin’s great warhorse at her shoulder. He stood tall, perhaps seventeen hands high, his chestnut coat glossy in the sunlight, quite dwarfing Josie and the little mare by her side. The horse was trained for battle: long, muscular legs to carry his rider with speed in the charge towards the lines of British infantry, strong hooves that would rear and smash a man’s skull, and a mouth taught to bite hard and mean. Dante had heard the drums beating for war many times, he was not afraid of the roar of cannons or the screams of men. He knew what he was to do. He was a killer every bit as much as the man that sat upon his back. But not this morning.

  The saddle and stirrups had not yet been fitted to his back. He wore the thickly sewn sheepskins that Dammartin covered him with through the cold of the night. His eyes were dark and soft and soulful and he was determined that Josie would feed him the nuts that his master normally brought. But Josie had nothing to give him. He nosed at her stomach, inadvertently pushing her back against Fleur. Then he nibbled at the tie to her cloak and knocked the hat from her head

  ‘Dante!’ Dammartin’s voice sounded close by, and then the big chestnut horse was being pulled away from Josie. ‘Captain Dammartin.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Mallington. Did he hurt you?’ He kept his face impassive.

  She looked very small and slender this morning, and his heart had skipped a beat when he saw her pressed between the two horses. One move and Dante would have her crushed. Dammartin had made his way swiftly over. And now Dante was at his back and Josephine Mallington before him, her eyes a vivid blue within the pale oval of her face. Some of her pins had been loosened and a few long strands of hair had escaped to hang down the side of her face, their pale trail stark against the bodice of her own high-necked, dark blue dress, and he thought of the red-and-black Spanish dress that he had stripped from her breasts last night. He saw the colour rise in her cheeks. Desire tightened his gut.

  ‘No. He is just looking for his treat.’

  They looked at each other in the bright light of morning, before Dammartin stooped to retrieve her hat from where Dante had knocked it to the ground. He handed it to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ Their fingers brushed, gloveless, bare, and he felt her jump before he drew his hand away. Her blush deepened.

  He told himself again that what he was doing today was for the best. This thing between them had been released in earnest and would never be recaptured. It would not be hidden or suppressed. It would not be ignored or broken. Its strength was far beyond anything of willpower. It was a living, growing thing, spiralling out of control…and it would destroy them both if he let it.

  She fixed the hat back on her head and fitted the gloves on to her hands. She no longer looked at him, but the scald still marked her cheeks.

  He would tell her now. He had to, for they would come for her soon. ‘Josephine,’ he said softly. ‘What happened last night, what has been growing between us…this attraction…’ He groped for the best words to convey his meaning. ‘It cannot be allowed to exist, for the sake of our fathers, for the sake of our honour. And so, because of this, there has been a change of plan.’

  She glanced up at him and he could see the question in her eyes.

  He forced himself to continue. ‘From today you no longer ride with the 8th. You shall be in the care of the 47th Regiment of Line and Major La Roque.’ He held her gaze. ‘You asked me once of witnesses to my father’s murder. Major La Roque was my father’s closest friend. It was he who was with him at Oporto when my father died.’ And he wondered if he was telling her this as some kind of reparation to make up for the fact that he was sending her away.

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  He gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

  Silence and awkwardness stood between them.

  ‘It is for the best that you must go,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dammartin’s hands itched to pull her into his arms. His fingers gripped together behind his back. There was nothing more he could say.

  ‘When do I leave?’

  Dammartin was struck anew by her courage and her dignity.

  The sound of horses’ hooves sounded in the distance.

  They both glanced towards the road. They both knew who was coming.

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  Two infantry officers of La Roque’s first company came into the field and dismounted. They were being directed to where Dammartin stood with Josie.

  She saw them coming.

  ‘You may take Fleur.’ Another salve for the wound.

  ‘Thank you.’ She was watching the officers in their blue coats and black shakos cross the field towards her. When they had almost reached her, she turned to him and said, ‘Did you take my portmanteau?’

  ‘No, Josephine, I did not.’

  Then the officers of the 47th were there saluting him. He moved to help her climb up on to Fleur, but she stepped quickly and pulled herself up without the need for his hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Captain Dammartin.’ She looked at him for one last time and what he saw in her face stilled the breath in his throat and made him want to pull her back down from the horse and send La Roque’s men away empty-handed.

  ‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle Mallington.’

  She twitched her heels and the small grey moved off, flanked by the two larger mounts of the officers. Her back was ramrod straight as they moved slowly across the field, breaking into a trot when they came close to the road. Dammartin stood and watched until Josephine Mallington disappeared from sight.

  Josie followed the officers down the road at the side of the camp to where the infantrymen had pitched their tents. She could see another small party of officers ahead on horseback, and took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come.

  She knew La Roque before he even spoke. His jacket was of the Emperor’s blue with white facings and gilt buttons. On his left shoulder he wore a full epaulet and on his right, a contre-epaulet without the fringes; both were gilt and a fine contrast to the red collar and cuffs upon his jacket. Around his neck, fitting snug beneath his collar, sat his metal badge of office—a gilt gorget—and at his left hip hung hi
s sword with its golden tassels around the hilt. The pure white of his breeches and the shine on his riding boots struck Josie as strange, given that they had spent the past days riding through such hostile terrain. On his head he wore a black bicorne hat as befitted his rank, complete with a white pompom and a small circular tricolour in the centre and tassels of gold at either corner.

  He was not as old as she had expected. His hair was dark slashed with silver, his face full from too much good living. Across his top lip sat a large moustache. He would have been what was termed a handsome man in his youth, and the semblance of it could still be seen in him. She met the gaze of those pale silver-grey eyes, and knew that this was the man who had lied about her father and something twisted in her stomach.

  He smiled and his teeth were white and even.

  When he spoke, his voice held the heavy accent of his country. ‘We meet at last, Mademoiselle Mallington.’

  ‘Major La Roque,’ she said, but she did not return his smile.

  ‘You come into my care now.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘The 47e Régiment d’Infanterie de Ligne shall convey you in safety. We do not harm our prisoners.’

  The unspoken accusation hung between them. She knew that he was baiting her.

  She gave no reply.

  ‘Do you know that I met your father once?’

  ‘So I have heard,’ she said.

  He arched a silver brow. ‘Perhaps Lieutenant Colonel Mallington spoke of me?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Or of Major Jean Dammartin, the man that he murdered.’

  She bit back the response that she would have given him, taking her time to fashion some civility into it. ‘My father was no murderer.’

  The Major looked round at the officers surrounding them, smiling as if she had just cracked a joke. ‘Her loyalty is admirable.’

  ‘My father did not kill Jean Dammartin.’

  ‘I saw him with my own eyes, mademoiselle. Perhaps you do not know that I was with him when he died, or that your father tried to kill me too.’

  ‘I know that is the story that is told.’

  She could almost hear the sudden intake of breath from the surrounding group of officers.

  But La Roque just smiled. ‘What can you be implying, Mademoiselle Mallington?’

  ‘I am implying nothing,’ she said. ‘But I know that my father did not kill Major Dammartin.’

  La Roque shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Poor child. How difficult it is to face the truth.’

  Josie bit back what she would have said.

  ‘I trust Captain Dammartin treated you well?’

  ‘He did, thank you.’

  ‘He is very like his father, you know—a fine man and a good soldier for France. Such a shame that your father murdered his in the most dishonourable of ways. How he must hate you, mademoiselle.’

  Once there had been hatred between her and Dammartin, but not any more. Josie lowered her face to hide the truth.

  La Roque leaned forward in his saddle and said quietly, ‘It is little wonder he makes a whore of you.’ He sat back and smiled again. ‘You will be escorted today by Lieutenant Donadieu. Such a pleasure to welcome you to our company, mademoiselle.’ The Major turned his horse around and, together with his officers, made his way slowly up the side of the thick column of infantry.

  One man stayed behind, a young man with fairish hair and a soft pink complexion—Lieutenant Donadieu—a man-boy, hardly old enough to be out of his school gown. But Josie barely noticed him. She was watching the retreating figure of Major La Roque, and hearing again the cruelty of his words. ‘Mademoiselle Mallington.’

  She turned her eyes slowly to Lieutenant Donadieu.

  He was looking at her with undisguised disgust.

  She met his gaze and held it defiantly, daring him to say the words that his face so clearly expressed.

  Donadieu averted his eyes and led off.

  Josie had no choice but to follow.

  The sky above was blue and clear. The sunlight was bright and white. Birdsong sounded over the noise of horses’ hooves. But to all of these things Josie was both blind and deaf. The column of French infantry moved forward.

  In the day that followed Josie came to realise what being a prisoner of the 47th Regiment of the Line meant, and, try as she might to remain unaffected, she found herself growing more and more miserable. None of the officers or men spoke to her. They looked at her plenty, their expressions ranging from curiosity to pity to blatant dislike. Lieutenant Donadieu was not like Lieutenant Molyneux. He rode close to her, but that was all. He did not bring her anything to eat or drink. He did not make conversation or strive to turn her mind away from the misery of the march to lighter things.

  Donadieu was at her side. Four officers and Major La Roque rode ahead. Four hundred men formed the column of the 47th. Before them rode one-hundred-and-twenty cavalrymen, and Captain Dammartin. Over five hundred men. And amidst them all Josie was alone.

  La Roque rested the men halfway through the day’s march. As with Dammartin’s dragoons, there was no time to cook a meal; instead, bread and hard biscuits were distributed. The men ate and drank the water from their canteens, sitting spread on the ground in uneven clusters, some resting, some even sleeping.

  Donadieu left her in the middle of a group of his fusiliers, a clear space of ground separating her from the infantrymen in their imperial-blue coats with their distinctive white facings and cross-belts, and matching dirty white pantaloons. Like La Roque, their collar and cuffs were red. Most of them had taken off their shakos as they lounged, leaving their hats lying on the ground beside their knapsacks and rolled greatcoats. They watched her with interest. She could hear their conversations quite clearly, for they did not think that she could understand, and they did not care. Some called her the murderer’s daughter, some speculated as to why Dammartin had kept her for a week before sending her to La Roque. Most of the comments were so crudely obscene as to send an angry blush to her cheeks.

  She sat alone, and pretended that she could hear none of them. Yet still she listened and she learned that the French thought La Roque a hero and that they anticipated that they would reach Ciudad Rodrigo late the next day. Only twenty-four hours. She had endured much more. She could endure this.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night Lieutenant Donadieu delivered her to the large tent that was erected for the women of the baggage train. The women, who were for the main part French, remained distant. They knew who she was judging from the ferocity of their comments, yet not one woman said anything to her face; they just looked at her with cold eyes and sullen mouths. These were the women who were wives to the ordinary soldiers and non-commissioned officers. These, too, were the women who were whores to whatever man would pay for their services.

  She knew some of the women’s faces from having seen them come into the 8th’s camp, and she knew Rosa, the only woman who displayed any vestige of friendliness towards her. It was Rosa who gave her a mess tin and spoon, and Rosa that made sure that Josie had food and water that evening. And for that Josie could only be glad.

  The two women ate their stew.

  ‘Will you stay travelling with the French?’ Josie chewed at a small, fatty lump of meat.

  Rosa lifted a suspicious face. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered.’ Josie thought of what Dammartin had told her of Rosa’s history.

  Rosa seemed to accept Josie’s answer. ‘Where Claude goes, then I go too.’

  ‘And after the war?’

  She shrugged. ‘Still then I follow him. There is nothing in Spain any more for me, there is only Claude.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosa smiled at that. ‘Do you love, señorita?’

  ‘I loved my parents and my brother.’

  ‘And Captain Dammartin,’ Rosa said, and her dark beautiful eyes seemed too knowing to Josie. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘No!’ she exc
laimed. ‘Of course not. He is my enemy. It is because of him that my father and all of his men are dead.’ But as she said it, there was the small, insistent thought in her head that her words were not true. Dammartin had given them more than enough chance to surrender. He had wanted Lieutenant Colonel Mallington taken alive. It was her father himself who had signed all their death warrants—so that the information might reach Wellington.

  Rosa’s eyebrows raised by the smallest degree. ‘That is no difference if you love him. I see his eyes on you, and I see, too, your eyes on him, señorita.’

  Heat scalded Josie’s cheeks scarlet. ‘I do not love him!’ She did not understand this thing between her and Pierre Dammartin, but it was not love, it could not possibly be love.

  ‘You say no too many times, too loudly. Who do you try to convince, señorita, me, or you?’

  Josie’s eyes widened. ‘You are mistaken, Señora Rosa,’ she said coolly.

  The hint of a smile touched to Rosa’s lips, but she said nothing more.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, Josie feeling angry and embarrassed, Rosa seemingly contented. It was Rosa who recommenced the conversation.

  ‘What will they do with you at Ciudad Rodrigo?’

  ‘Send me back to Santarém, to General Massena,’ said Josie, relieved at the change of subject from Dammartin. ‘He will exchange me for a French prisoner of war held by the British—I hope.’

  ‘And then?’

  And then? It was the question that Josie had not yet dared to ask herself. What would happen? ‘I suppose I will be sent back to England.’

  ‘To your mother?’

  ‘My mother is dead.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘She died four years ago.’ Josie scraped her spoon at some invisible contents of the mess tin. ‘My brother was in the cavalry. He was killed two years ago. There is no one waiting for me at home.’

  ‘You have an aunt, an uncle, cousins?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Then where will you go?’