Violet v-5

by Jane Feather

  “Cecile?” Major Carson queried, carrying a forkful of mushroom compote to his lips.

  “My mother, sir. I inherited her small stature. The baron maintained we had too little height and weight to absorb much wine.” She bit into an almond pastry. “It seemed as good an explanation as any.”

  “St. Simon tells us that your mother was English,” the brigadier said, taking his nose out of his wineglass.

  “Yes,” Tamsyn agreed. She brushed crumbs off her fingers and played with the locket at her throat. “This belonged to my mother. It belonged to her mother, I believe.”

  “But how did she find herself in Spain?” Major Carson asked.

  “She was paying a visit to some family friends… an ambassador or some such in Madrid. She disappeared into the arms of my father at some point in the journey.” Tamsyn smiled as she helped herself to another sweetmeat from the basket in front of her. “And had no desire to leave them… until she died.”

  The shadow that passed across her face was gone before anyone but Julian caught it. But a hardness lingered in her face and eyes, although she continued to smile and nibble her pastry. It was as if she'd thrown up shutters to her innermost feelings, he thought. As if something too deep and too precious had come dangerously close to the surface.

  The conversation became general until the covers were removed and the port decanter appeared. Chairs were pushed back from the table, cigars were lit, the decanter circulated, and it clearly didn't occur to anyone that La Violette was in the least out of place. Least of all did it occur to the bandit, Julian reflected caustically, regarding her from beneath his heavy eyelids as she joked and flirted quite openly with Wellington.

  When she accepted a peeled grape from between the duke's fingers, Julian decided he'd had as much as he could take of this charade. His men were in the trenches and he had work to do. Pushing back his chair, he stood up.

  “You'll excuse me, gentlemen, but I've pickets to post. I must return to my brigade.”

  “The men are in a filthy temper,” Colonel Webster observed, suddenly somber. “They're swearing at the Spaniards in Badajos for yielding the city to the French without a fight, and they're swearing blue bloody murder at the French for holding out when they know they haven't got a chance.”

  “There'll be bloody work once we get into the city, you mark my words,” Brigadier Cornwallis agreed in curiously detached accents as he refilled his port glass.

  “Yes, we'll have the devil's own task to keep a rein on them,” Julian said. “Well, I bid you good night, gentlemen.” He glanced at Tamsyn and was shocked at her white set face, wiped clean of all playfulness. Again she seemed to be looking on some grim internal landscape. “Farewell, Violette,” he said deliberately. “I trust your business here prospers.”

  Tamsyn snapped back to the present. The colonel sounded as if they were not to meet again. “I trust so, too, milord colonel. I'll see you in the morning, I daresay.”

  “I fear not,” he said. “My work doesn't bring me into Elvas.” He bowed to the commander in chief and left the cozy fire lit room for the chill of his tent in the encampment and the whine of shell and thud of mortar. But he thought he would sleep well for the first time since he'd laid eyes on La Violette. Now his part in her life was done.

  Tamsyn regarded the closed door with a quizzically raised eyebrow. His work didn't bring him into Elvas? He would find he was mistaken. Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon most certainly had work to do at headquarters.

  “So, Tamsyn, can we get down to business?” Wellington was suddenly all briskness, the bonhomie of a generous host vanished beneath the incisive manner bf the commander in chief. “You have information to sell? What is your price?”

  Tamsyn shook her head and her tone now matched his. “I'll tell you that, sir, when you've told me exactly what you wish to buy.”

  Wellington listed his requirements. The code names and passwords of the partisan bands in the area. Their location and composition, so he could make contact with them without waiting to be contacted. A detailed map of the mountain passes known only to the partisans. The extent of the partisan armories and what if anything they lacked that could be supplied by the armies of the Peninsular.

  Tamsyn listened intently. Then she said, “That's quite a shopping list, sir. You'll understand that I need to sleep on it.”

  “Of course. But I trust not too long.”

  “No. But I'm not going to sell you anything that might jeopardize the integrity of the partisans.”

  “Oh?” Wellington frowned and pulled his chin. “I hadn't thought you so nice in your dealings, Violette.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I don't sell my friends, sir.”

  “No, of course not,” he said soothingly. “But you surely understand the difference between giving such information to us rather than to the French. I would use it to assist your friends, not to injure them.”

  “That may be so, sir, but my friends are jealous of their independence, and they're not always ready to accept help from anyone.” She stood up, her chair scrapping on the wooden floor. “Thank you for your hospitality. I'll be at your disposal in the morning.”

  The men rose as she left the room, and then Wellington came quickly after her, ordering the brigade-major, still at his desk, “Sanderson, see our guest safely to her lodging.”

  “There's no need for that,” Tamsyn said. “I'll surely meet with no insult from your soldiers.” There was a venomous point to the statement that brought a dull flush to the commander's cheeks. He could think of no reason for her implicit accusation, and yet he found himself on the defensive.

  “I trust not,” he said stiffly. “Nevertheless, you will accept an escort.”

  Tamsyn inclined her head. “If you say so, sir. Good night.”

  She walked down the stairs, followed by the lieutenant, leaving a frowning Wellington staring after her. A strange girl, he thought. And not one to be underestimated.

  Under the cold starlight Julian walked through the group of tents housing his own brigade. Two companies were at work in the trenches; the rest were off duty and sat around their fires, talking in low voices, pipe smoke drifting in a blue haze as they smoked and drank from tankards of blackstrap.

  The colonel greeted them all by name, pausing to chat for a few minutes, trying to gauge their mood. Were they optimistic about the upcoming assault on the city? Eager for it? Intent on vengeance?

  “Us'll be glad when we're done 'ere, sir,” a burly trooper said, phlegmatically puffing on his pipe as he cobbled a hole in the sole of his boot. “This is wretched work, beggin' yer pardon, sir.”

  “Aye, but if old Hookey says us mun do it, then us mun do it,” responded his companion with a fatalistic shrug.

  Julian smiled to himself as he strolled on. The men had several affectionate nicknames for their commander in chief, most of them referring to his large hooked nose. And it was true they'd follow him into hell if he expected it of them. He glanced toward the dark shape of Badajos crouching on the plain. The walls were now breached in three places, and the attack was planned for tomorrow night, but the French garrison was efficiently repairing the breaches whenever the English bombardment permitted it. The assault was going to be a bloody business at best, and the city would pay bitterly for its intransigence.

  “Sergeant Gorman's been regaling the mess with the tale of Cornichet's epaulets,” a voice spoke at his shoulder out of the darkness. “I gather La Violette's something of a prankster.”

  “That's one way of putting it, Frank,” Julian said dryly, turning toward the young captain who was his own aide-de-camp. “I'd call it something else myself”

  “They're a perverse lot, the partisans,” Captain Frank Frobisher observed. “Treat us more like the enemy than the enemy.”

  “Well, my business with La Violette is done, thank God,” Julian declared. “She can play her tricks on the Peer and see where it gets her.” He began to walk back toward his own tent. “Fancy a nightcap? I've
a tolerable cognac in my tent, if Tim O'Connor hasn't had a go at it in my absence.”

  Frank laughed. “I doubt even Tim's blarney would get him past Dobbin. That man of yours is a veritable Cerberus when it comes to guarding your possessions.”

  They ducked into the colonel's tent, where his servant was trimming the oil lamp. A pan of water simmered on a small charcoal brazier.

  “You'll be wantin' your tea, I daresay, Colonel?” Dobbin observed comfortably, knowing the colonel's invariable night-time routine in camp.

  “Later… Captain Frobisher could do with a cognac.” Julian pushed forward a camp chair for his guest and bent to rummage in a wooden chest, bringing out a square bottle of fine cognac. “Have we glasses, Dobbin?”

  “Aye, sir.” The servant produced them.

  “Is that cognac I smell?” A pink-cheeked face poked through the tent door. “I thought you was back, Julian. Heard you had quite a junket.” Tim O'Connor brought the rest of himself into the space that seemed to shrink dramatically with his substantial bulk. He took another camp chair and beamed. “So tell us about this female bandit. Is she worth looking at?”

  “Not to my taste,” Julian said dismissively, and changed the subject. “The brigade's objective tomorrow during the assault is the San Vincente bastion. Any suggestion as to how we deploy the companies?”

  His two friends immediately turned their attention to brigade business and the storming of Badajos, and the subject of La Violette was dropped, but St. Simon's unwillingness to discuss his dealings with the bandit, or even to satisfy the most minimal curiosity, did not go unnoticed.

  After they'd left, Julian lay on his cot, sipping his tea, thinking about the following night, about the possibility of his own death, about all the inevitable deaths. He would lose friends tomorrow. In the four years of the Peninsular war, he'd lost many such, and it didn't become any easier to accept.

  La Violette had seen her share of death too. It was in her eyes, in the shadow that so often passed across her face. She was a creature of wild contrasts, he thought. A deep river of dark experience flowed beneath the bright, sensual surface.

  And then he remembered that he wasn't going to think of the girl again-not of her passion, her mischief, her taunts or her griefs never again.

  Chapter Seven

  LIEUTENANT SANDERSON ARRIVED AT SENHORA Braganza’s cottage the next morning while Tamsyn was at breakfast in the sunny kitchen, where the door stood open onto a vegetable and herb garden, a line of beehives ranged against the warm brick wall at the rear.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.” She greeted him with a cheerful smile and waved him to a chair with a hand holding a crust of bread dripping honey. “Coffee? The senhora makes an excellent cup.”

  “No, thank you. The commander in chief sent me to escort you to headquarters.” The brigade-major shifted from foot to foot, clearly unsure how to impress upon this insouciantly breakfast-eating brigand the urgency of his errand. Wellington was in one of his more irascible moods, undoubtedly due to the impending assault on Badajos.

  “I'll finish my breakfast; then I shall be entirely at the duke's disposal,” Tamsyn said calmly, breaking another chunk of bread from the long loaf on the table, spreading honey lavishly. “You might as well have a cup of coffee while you're waiting.”

  Sanderson sat down. If he was going to be flayed, he might as well fortify himself Tamsyn accorded him an approving nod, and the senhora immediately produced a bowl of fragrant coffee.

  “Is Colonel, Lord St. Simon at headquarters this morning?” she inquired pleasantly.

  “Oh, no, senorita. He's with his brigade. His division will be part of the assault force tonight.”

  “So it's to be tonight,” Tamsyn said. A shudder quivered along her spine. How many men would lie dead beneath those walls by morning? Would Julian St. Simon be one of them? A little cold spot began to bloom in her stomach.

  She pushed back her chair with a sudden movement that took the lieutenant by surprise. He looked up from his coffee cup and drew breath sharply at her face, which had become a mask, all light and mobility banished.

  Of course, if St. Simon did fall at the storming of Badajos, she'd be back to square one. A very enjoying prospect, enough to cause cold spots in anyone s belly. She stood up, wiping her sticky fingers on a chequered napkin.

  “Let's go then, Lieutenant.”

  Her voice, incisive and commanding, brought him to his feet immediately, abandoning his half-full cup. He found he almost had to trot to keep up with her as she strode through the streets.

  Wellington greeted her with brusque courtesy. He was clearly preoccupied, and Tamsyn refused the seat he offered, choosing instead to perch on the window sill.

  “So what is the price of your information, Violette?”

  The commander in chief came straight to the point. “Sanderson, take notes, will you?”

  The aide-de-camp sat down at the desk and began to sharpen a quill.

  Tamsyn said with a cool smile, “I will tell you my price in the presence of Colonel, Lord St. Simon. Not otherwise.”

  “What?” Wellington glared at her, remembering what Julian had said about the brigand's penchant for game playing. “What nonsense is this?”

  “No, nonsense, sir.” She slid off the windowsill.

  “That's my condition. You'll understand why when you hear my terms. You may find me at the cottage when the colonel arrives.” Without further ado she left the room, offering them both a smiling nod as she did so.

  “What the devil's going on between the girl and St. Simon?” Wellington mused in an undertone that Sanderson pretended he hadn't heard since it didn't seem to be directed at him. “Something's afoot there.”

  He paced the room from window to fireplace and back again. For whatever reason, Julian had made it clear he wanted nothing further to do with the girl. Was it fair to compel his presence just because the brigand insisted upon it?

  But he wanted that information. Once Badajos had fallen, they'd be on the march again, north toward Campo Mayor, and Violette's knowledge would greatly facilitate the march. Besides, if he passed up this opportunity, he was unlikely to meet up with another such source.

  “Sanderson, send someone to ask Colonel St. Simon to report to headquarters at his earliest convenience.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide-de-camp left at a run. It was still relatively early in the day, but in a few hours no one would have time for anything but preparations for the assault.

  Julian was discussing with his company commanders the procedure for the brigade's attack on the San Vicente bastion. They would not be part of the main assault, but a flanking secondary assault made simultaneously with the main attack, intended to distract attention and divert French forces from the breaches.

  The ensign, riding in great haste through the neat rows of tents, drew raised eyebrows as he approached the group of men clustered around a map spread on a rough planking table outside St. Simon's tent.

  “Your pardon, Colonel, sir.” The ensign leaped from his mount, offering a sketchy salute. “The commander wishes you to report to headquarters at your earliest convenience.”

  “Yesterday, in other words,” Frank said with a grin, straightening from the map.

  Julian stood, frowning. What could possibly be so important that Wellington would tear him away from his brigade on the eve of battle? The answer was a red flag waving in his brain. La Violette. Whatever this was, the half-breed brigand was behind it. And by the living God, she was going to understand once and for all that he could not be pushed around like a pawn on a chessboard!

  “Dobbin! My horse!” He disappeared into his tent on the bellowed instruction, leaving his officers to exchange glances of surprise. He emerged in a minute, buckling his sword belt, thunderclouds massed on the broad forehead beneath the unruly lock of red-gold hair, his bright eyes darting around his assembled staff like fire-tipped arrows.

  “I'll be no more than an hour. Major O'Connor, I want th
at assault plan drawn up for when I return.” Impatiently, he took the reins of his horse from Dobbin and swung into the saddle.

  “Yes, sir,” Tim muttered. Something was awry.

  Julian rarely pulled rank and was not given to taking his ill temper out on his subordinates; it was one reason his men would follow him into hell, and the competition for a place on his staff was always fierce. Lord St. Simon was one of the youngest colonels in the armies of the Peninsular, but older men were as eager to serve under him as were his peers.

  “I'll lay odds that that Violette is behind this,” Frank observed, stretching. “Julian don't care for her above half, and if she's pulling his string, the fur will fly, you mark my words.”

  “Can't see a Spanish brigand getting the better of the Peer, let alone St. Simon,” Captain Deerbourne observed. “And if she's playing tricks today of all days, she's a fool.”

  All eyes went as one to the walls of Badajos, shrouded in the smoke from the bombardment.

  Julian cantered toward Elvas, seething. The sight of La Violette sitting on a rock on the Portuguese side of the pontoon bridge did nothing to placate him. It was as clear as day she was waiting for him, and therefore that she was responsible for this summons.

  Tamsyn had indeed been waiting for him. She guessed he would not be in the best of tempers and summoned up her most charming smile, rising to meet him as he walked his mount across the swaying bridge.

  “Good morning, milord colonel.” Hastily, Tamsyn stepped into his path when it rather looked as if he was going to ride straight past her. “I'm so happy to see you.” Shielding her gaze from the sun, she squinted up at him, a smile crinkling the golden skin around her eyes, her hair almost white in the sunlight. “How nice that your work did bring you into Elvas, after all.”

  Julian's fingers twitched on his reins as he imagined placing them tightly around the slender column of her throat rising out of the opened white collar of her shirt… and slowly squeezing… And then he imagined his fingers sliding up behind her ears, those little shells lying flat against the side of her head, tickling in the tender skin behind…