The Memory of Your Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  “No, Inglés,” Pilar said gently, using Elena’s name for him. “Elena was not at Arroyo Robles with Miguel. She died in childbirth two months before. The baby came early.”

  Another punch. Would they never stop coming?

  Pilar went on. “Miguel was very distraught at losing his sister. They were very close, you know. Had you been here, he might have tried to kill you.”

  With due cause, Zachary thought, but held his tongue, unable now to take his eyes off the baby.

  “In the end, Elena knew she was dying. She made us promise to find you. Miguel would have honored her wish, but—” Pilar waved one hand in a gesture of despair.

  Reeling inside, Zachary rose and touched McIntyre’s shoulder. “See—see to them,” he mumbled and stumbled out the door. He leaned against a pillar of the veranda as he gazed unseeing at the yard where he had watched a laughing, carefree Elena playing with her brother’s children. He made no effort to control the sobs wracking his body. He felt every breath in his sore ribs.

  CHAPTER 17

  Having gained control of himself, Zachary sat on a bench on the veranda for a long while, grateful that the others were allowing him this time alone. The sun was setting, bathing the deserted cottages and surrounding trees in a rose-gold glow. As the light faded even further, he became aware of the door opening.

  Pilar emerged, holding the baby, and sat on the bench next to him with the child on her lap facing him. The baby emitted an unintelligible gurgle and reached toward Zachary with a crust of bread in his hand. Zachary smiled and touched his cheek.

  “He’s beautiful,” Zachary said. “W-what do you call him?”

  “Lucas. He has brought much light into our lives.” She seemed thoughtful for a moment. “But he is so young, you can change it—make it more English if you wish.”

  “You mean me to take him?”

  “But of course. A child should be with his own parents. And it was Elena’s wish. That is why she made Miguel promise—”

  “I see.” He longed to hold the baby, but was somewhat fearful of this little bundle of squirming humanity. He could not remember ever having—or wanting to have—a baby in his arms before.

  Pilar broke into this thought. “There is something else, señor.”

  “What?” What more could this day throw at him?

  “Elena’s father—the colonel—he did not approve of her—of us, really.”

  “Elena told me Miguel had married against his father’s wishes.”

  “Yes.” For a moment she seemed to dwell on a memory. “He denounced us. Then he denounced Elena when she supported us. He disowned her entirely when she joined us—the partisans. A woman must not do such things—and a good daughter must not defy her father.”

  “He disowned her? She must have been very hurt by that.”

  She shifted the babbling baby on her lap. “She was. I think his rejection hurt her even more than her Arturo’s betrayal.”

  He looked at her questioningly.

  “The boy she was to have married.”

  “Ah.” He was silent for a moment. “So—?”

  “So. Colonel Salvatore Federico Ramirez is an ambitious and narrow-minded man. He will not welcome such a grandson. Not in Spanish society.”

  “Oh, my God! This beautiful baby—his own flesh and blood—”

  “Is illegitimate,” Pilar said sadly.

  He was distracted now as Lucas reached two chubby baby arms toward him. Zachary knew instantly that he was lost forever to this son of his.

  Pilar smiled. “See? He likes you already.”

  She thrust the baby forward and Zachary caught him gingerly, holding him close with his good arm and bracing the infant with the hand of the arm still in a sling.

  Pilar laughed. “He will not break, Señor Quintin.”

  Lucas gazed solemnly at this new person in his life. The child had a fine head of very black hair, like that of both his parents, and, for a baby, unusually well-defined dark brows. His eyes were brown, but the softer brown of Elena’s rather than the near-black of Zachary’s. Zachary felt a surge of unadulterated, unconditional love. He recalled feeling just such protectiveness toward the injured Elena as they escaped the village of Segueros so many months ago.

  He felt his eyes fill with tears as he whispered to Pilar, “Thank you for caring for my son. For giving him to me.”

  She rose and touched his shoulder. “He is Elena’s gift. You must treasure him.” She stepped toward the door. “I will see to our supper. Such a feast we shall have with the fresh meat you brought.”

  The supper was pleasant enough, though a more subdued affair than had been the case when most of the people at this table were the single men of the Ramirez band. The children—about a dozen of them, the Rangers were told—had been fed earlier, so conversation at the table was freer than it might have been. Having suffered terrible losses of their own, the women were sympathetic to Zachary’s plight. He was glad to find that none of these devoutly Catholic women seemed judgmental of him or Elena. He conjectured that in this regard, they took their cue from Pilar, who had been very fond of her sister-in-law.

  He looked around the table and finally thought to ask, “Where is José? Did you not say he survived the ambush?”

  “Yes, he did,” Pilar said. “But he was very weak.”

  “None of us thought he would make it,” one of the others said.

  “He has that same stubborn Guzman will as his sister,” another said with a teasing look at Pilar, before going on. “He had a broken arm—like yours, Señor Quintin. And a terrible cut on his thigh. He had lost much blood in that long walk back here.”

  “Then the infection,” another added. They all seemed eager to sing José’s praises.

  “A miracle he survived.”

  “God’s will.”

  “But where is he?” Zachary asked.

  Pilar answered. “I sent him and Sarita—you remember Sarita? Pedro’s wife?” Zachary nodded, and she continued. “I sent them to locate our father. He, too, was with the loyal Spanish government, but we have had no word for many months, so he will be difficult to find perhaps.”

  “When?” McIntyre asked. “How long have they been gone?”

  “Three weeks.”

  McIntyre exchanged a look with Zachary. “Too long. God knows where they might be. Guess we just wait, eh?”

  Zachary was pleased that McIntyre, Gordon, and O’Brien all just assumed they would help these people. Before everyone retired for the night, Zachary made a point of looking in on the sleeping Lucas. He could not resist just touching him again. When the four Rangers were alone, sharing one of the lodge’s rooms that two of the women had given up, he tried to thank his men for their support.

  “Ah, God, Major. What else could we do?” Gordon said, as he and O’Brien laid out their bedrolls on pallets on the floor. They had lost the coin toss for the bed.

  “So you plan to take baby Lucas back to England?” McIntyre asked as he removed his boots.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “What else can I do?” Zachary echoed Gordon’s earlier comment. Then his tone hardened. “I say—you do not mean to imply that that baby is not mine?”

  “Not at all. The shape of those ears—those dimples in his cheeks. You must have looked like that at his age.”

  Zachary nodded. “As did both my younger brothers. Mother always said we looked just alike as babies.”

  “What I meant was how do you plan to explain his existence? Single men don’t go around adopting foreign babies.”

  Zachary was aware that the other two were listening intently for his reply. “Hmm. Well—the truth, I suppose. And a lie—if I can enlist your aid.”

  “Our aid?” O’Brien sounded mystified.

  “I just freely—and truthfully—claim my son.” The words were still new to him, but he felt a touch of pride in saying them. “Then—I lie and have everyone believing Elena and I were marr
ied.” He was warming to the story. “A Catholic ceremony. You all were witnesses, but agreed to keep it a secret.”

  Gordon said, “That could work—but what about Harrelson and Richardson—the whole British army, in fact? They might already be telling war stories in London drawing rooms.”

  “Trevor and Adam will support whatever we come up with,” Zachary said.

  “That they will.” McIntyre, having stripped down to his underwear, was quiet for several minutes after crawling into bed. “All right. Some more truth and another lie.” He paused again.

  “Well—?” O’Brien prompted.

  “Out with it,” Gordon demanded.

  Zachary merely waited as he took the other half of the bed, making sure his still healing arm would be on the outer edge.

  “Everyone knows the Horse Guards have strict rules against English soldiers marrying foreign women,” McIntyre said.

  “Yeh. So?” Gordon said.

  “So it had to be a secret. Against the rules and all. Had to be secret from her family, too, because they would never approve her marrying a foreigner and a non-Catholic at that.”

  “Actually, that is very close to the truth,” Zachary said. “Pilar tells me her father-in-law would never have condoned his daughter’s marrying an Englishman.”

  “Canna blame a mon for that,” Gordon said, exaggerating his Scottish brogue.

  “So—we just have to keep our mouths shut,” O’Brien said with a yawn. “Don’t see as that’s a problem. Should work right well.”

  “It has to,” Zachary said. “I do not want my son needlessly ostracized.”

  Long after the others were creating a symphony of snores, Zachary lay awake, his mind replaying images of Elena—of the years since his return to the war, but especially of Elena. Had he been in love with her? He thought he could have been—had not the image of another kept intruding—the image of a woman with light brown hair and marvelous gray-green eyes. Sydney.

  Yet he cherished the easy camaraderie—the warmth, the laughter, the passion—he had shared with Elena. He treasured this baby. Her baby. A God-given wonder to be cherished for himself alone. He silently vowed that Elena’s son would always know his mother.

  For nearly two weeks Zachary and his men stayed with what was left of the Ramirez partisans. The Rangers supplemented the women’s remaining food with game—and with what could now, with transportation available, be procured at a distant village. Zachary spent much of this two-week interval at the pleasant task of getting acquainted with and learning to care for his son.

  One of the women, with a baby just three months older than Lucas, had been serving as a wet nurse to Elena’s baby.

  “That is going to be a problem when we leave here,” Zachary said, only half joking.

  Pilar emitted a soft snort of laughter. “Yes, but not impossible to solve. You must get a goat. In the village. Both these babies are taking solid food now.” She was spooning mashed potatoes and carrots toward Lucas’s mouth and some of it actually went in.

  “That mess does not look very ‘solid’ to me.”

  “You’ll learn, Papa.”

  On the fifth day, many of the inhabitants of the lodge were still sitting at the table after the midday meal when one of the women, named Almira, dashed into the dining room looking distraught. Her eyes full of fear, and her breath coming in gasps, she cried out, “They’re here. They said they’d be back and they are.”

  “What? Who?” Several spoke at once.

  “The banditos. I saw them from the cliff. Crossing the river. We must hurry.”

  Zachary felt as much as heard the panic in the room. “Hold on,” he said. “How many were there?”

  Almira took a deep breath. “Maybe ten. Not as many as before.”

  “Coming in midday as they are, they seem to assume the women are alone,” McIntyre observed.

  “And without weapons,” Gordon added, “since they took the ones they had before.”

  The Rangers had already given the women the weapons and horses gained in their own encounter with such scoundrels. The four men were themselves well armed, each with a rifle, at least one pistol, and a knife tucked into a boot. Zachary ordered three of the women to take positions at upstairs windows; McIntyre and Gordon would remain on the ground floor; he and O’Brien would wait outside at the corners of the lodge. The children were to be gathered together in a back bedroom.

  “I think they will find their reception a bit of a surprise, but let them come close first,” he said.

  The women were clearly frightened, but resilient and resourceful. They readily fell in with the plan. Then the entire house was quiet, waiting.

  Presently a band of ten horsemen with two pack animals rode into the compound; they kept their horses at a walk. Zachary could see that they were men of experience, always cautious, but, at the moment, they were also confident, even cocky. Seeing one of them take a long swallow from a leather bag such as Spaniards often used for wine, Zachary wondered if they had all been drinking. They were dressed in a motley mixture of peasant wear and remnants of Spanish, French, and English uniforms. Several casually carried weapons across their arms and Zachary saw other rifles as well. They rode to within a few feet of the veranda.

  The apparent leader rose up in his saddle and shouted in fractured Spanish. “Buenos días, señoritas! We are back. Won’t you come out and play with us?” He laughed and after a few seconds of silence from the lodge, he added in a cajoling tone, “Come on, pretty playthings. We know you are in there. We saw the smoke of your cooking fire. Don’t make us come to get you.”

  Still no answer.

  The man started to dismount and several of his companions were in the act of doing so as well when an answer came in the form of an explosion from an upstairs window. The bullet caught the man in the chest and spun him around; the movement scared his horse, which sidestepped with the rider’s foot still in the stirrup. Now the horse truly panicked and its agitation spread to the others.

  Pandemonium erupted among the visitors, who hastily returned fire or tried to do so even as they fought to control their mounts. Surprise was on the side of the lodge people, whose shots came from several vantage points. Soon enough, those of the would-be revelers who could do so turned tail and ran, leaving behind four dead and two dying companions.

  It was late in the evening before they finished burying the dead and rounding up the stray animals, including one of the pack horses. The women exclaimed in satisfaction at discovering that that animal carried about ten kilos of flour and a container of tea. After the children had all been put to bed, the tired adults met in the drawing room. The tea tray materialized and they solemnly discussed the events of this hectic, sad day.

  “You ladies did very well,” McIntyre said. “Real soldiers, all of you.”

  “I am sorry I shot before I should have,” said the woman who had fired that first shot. “I-I heard his voice—and it—it all came back to me—you know—what he—what he did to me—to us.”

  “Not to worry, Señora Vicente,” Zachary said. “Try not to think about it—about him.” Even as he said this, he knew such advice was futile, for few people can kill another without some emotional consequence.

  Gordon added, “In any event, he got what he deserved. That one will never harm another woman.”

  “I don’t care,” Almira said just as though someone had challenged her. “I know the priest says revenge is wrong, but it felt good not to be a victim again.”

  Pilar raised her cup in a salute. “Gentlemen, we thank you.”

  A week later, José returned with his and Pilar’s father and a contingent of ten Spanish soldiers in General Guzman’s command. And two days after that Zachary, his three Rangers, and the baby Lucas, along with two pack horses and a nanny goat, left the compound with tearful good-byes ringing in their ears. The baby alternately rode in a basket attached to one of the pack horses or in the arms of his father or one of his honorary uncles. Instead of crossing
the Pyrenees yet again, they headed for the port of San Sebastian, where they were confident of securing passage back to England. To Zachary’s immense relief, they spent most of their nights along the way in villages with pensions or inns where servants were readily available to help with laundry and other needs one encountered in travel with an infant.

  Within a month, the Rangers were all back in London, trying, with varying degrees of success, to cope with the return to civilian life.

  After Easter, Sydney took her entourage back to London. She found the city ecstatic over the news of Napoleon’s defeat and abdication. News of the victory at Toulouse was only slightly tempered by the fact that that battle occurred after the Corsican monster had given up the fight. Wellington was clearly the hero of the day and the Prince Regent was just as clearly determined to share in the duke’s military glory. All London seemed set on a prolonged celebration, which would culminate in mid July with a state visit from Russia’s Czar Alexander, Prussia’s King Frederick, and the colorful Marshal Blücher.

  As a still-grieving widow, Sydney felt she should refuse most of the invitations to balls and routs that arrived at Paxton House daily. However, she encouraged Aunt Harriet and Celia to accept any that might appeal to them, and she enjoyed listening to their accounts of their evenings. Sydney was content to take up her work with the Fairfax sisters in earnest now. Henry had never quite approved of her visits to Spitalfields, and she had respected his wishes. Now, though, she felt no such constraints.

  Penelope and Priscilla Fairfax were middle-aged spinsters who had inherited a large fortune from their father, owner of a silk mill. As daughters of a “cit,” the two had little chance of making it into the higher echelons of society—nor had they ever aspired to do so. Their home in Spitalfields, an island of gentility in a sea of degradation and debauchery, offered a safe haven to some of the city’s most neglected denizens. It was at times—and sometimes simultaneously—a home for unwed pregnant young women, an orphanage, and a refuge for abused women.