Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  Barnabas stiffened. “Oh, lud.”

  Jamey followed his brother’s gaze. “Damme,” he swore. He dropped his arm. “All finished, Phillip? Good. Let’s—”

  Barnabas nudged him. “Too late, Jamey. They’ve seen us.”

  “Who?” asked Phillip.

  “Family,” Jamey snarled.

  “Don’t look it,” Phillip said.

  Jamey allowed he was right. The approaching man’s tall, thin figure, narrow pinched face, and sloped shoulders bore no resemblance to most Vincouers.

  “Took after the Lintels,” Barnabas explained. He hurriedly removed his hat. “His mother’s side of the family.”

  “Sanford.” Jamey clipped the greeting. He bowed to the ladies and only hesitated a moment before he shook his cousin’s hand. “Aunt Vincouer. Agatha.” As usual his aunt Ermintrude eyed him and the others with frank disfavour.

  With a nod at Jamey, Ermintrude glared at Barnabas. “Shabby manners, young man, and so I shall tell your mother when next we meet.”

  “Always—a—a pleasure, Aunt,” Barnabas stammered. “Let me present my friend, Phillip Bellaport.” He pulled him forward. “We’re down from school for a few days.”

  “Wasting your father’s blunt,” Ermintrude scolded. She eyed his friend. “Just who are you, young man?”

  Phillip gaped at such rudeness.

  “Your family?” she snorted.

  “My-–my father is Margonaut,” he answered and bowed. “Excuse me.” Phillip tipped his hat to the ladies and nodded to the gentlemen.

  “I’ll go with you,” Barnabas squeaked. “We’ll meet you at Tattersalls, Jamey,” he tossed over his shoulder as he hurried after Phillip.

  “Banbury manners,” spluttered Ermintrude.

  Jamey watched the pair go, envious mirth in his eyes. Then he noticed his cousin Agatha, standing, as usual, with head bowed. A twinge of pity stirred. His cousin had her mother’s thinness but was not unattractive. She would be pretty if better gowned, he thought.

  Jamey touched Agatha’s elbow. “You are in good looks.”

  She raised startled eyes. “Th—thank you, James.”

  “Agatha has an excellent opportunity,” Ermintrude preened. “We are to visit the Bennets. You will soon be able to wish her happy.”

  And you don’t now? Jamey wondered.

  “Mo—mother,” the young woman weakly protested.

  “Take Agatha to look at those shawls.” Sanford motioned to a stall across the large chamber. “Purchase one—one only.”

  “Just so,” Ermintrude agreed. “By the by, James, have you heard lately how fares your Uncle Matthew?”

  “Tolerably well,” Jamey replied. “Maddie writes he is regaining his health,” he continued, a close eye on Sanford.

  “You are too free with your cousin’s given name,” Ermintrude scolded. “Madeline has great need of a husband who will steady her ways.” She shook a bony finger at him. “It certainly isn’t a cavalry mad pup like you.”

  “The shawl, Mother,” Sanford grated.

  She speared her son with a look, but took Agatha’s arm. “Come along, girl. Do not dawdle.”

  As Jamey watched Sanford flicked open a tiny enamelled snuffbox. He grinned with ill-concealed amusement when his cousin dropped some grains on his cuff.

  “How is our cousin—Madeline?” Sanford drawled.

  The sarcasm that dripped from each syllable stiffened Jamey. Wary, he said, “She is well.”

  Sanford picked up the quizzing glass that dangled from a ribbon on his waistcoat. He slowly swung it to and fro. “Hmmm. We may call at Hart Cottage after Mother visits the Bennets.”

  “They will be happy for visitors.”

  When Sanford raised the quizzing glass to his eye, and peered at him, Jamey gritted his teeth.

  “There is a rumour you are bound for Portugal.”

  Jamey fought down the urge to wrest the glass from his cousin’s hand and smash it. “I await orders.”

  Sanford lowered the glass, trailed its ribbon over his forefinger. “I have it that the Peninsula is a death trap.”

  Jamey snorted. “Do not pin your hopes on that solving your problem.”

  “Whatever can you mean?”

  Jamey stepped close, the question he had wrestled with ever since his talk with Bellaport answered. “Maddie and I are betrothed. We may even wed before I leave.”

  Sanford’s hand stilled. “I have heard nothing of this.”

  “I know about the will,” Jamey bit out.

  “’Haps I should visit Hart Cottage. Speak to Uncle Matthew about this betrothal.”

  “Do so. Please.” Jamey turned on his heels and walked away with studied nonchalance.

  Sanford fingered his quizzing glass. Marriage? Bah. When next I see Madeline he will not be nearby. There will be no need for me to honour her sensibilities. Then he pursed his lips. Betrothed, what a bloody joke! The stem of his quizzing glass snapped in his hand. We will see what happens when dear Uncle Matthew puts his spoon in the wall.

  * * *

  Hart Cottage July 25th

  Maddie soaked up the bright afternoon sunshine. She looked back towards the house where her father sat on the shaded balcony outside his room.

  Sighing, Maddie went over the exchange she and Jamey had had at the end of his short visit two weeks past. When he had broached the matter of a betrothal earlier in his visit, she had turned it aside. But he renewed his appeal before he left. Their exchange that day still troubled her.

  “Maddie, it is unlike you not to face what is.” Jamey gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “At the least, you must agree to a betrothal. Major Bellaport says your being pledged to someone would answer the problem.”

  Having heard enough of the paragon, Major Bellaport and what he “thought,” Maddie compressed her lips. She disliked Jamey, much less a complete stranger, foisting a solution on her when she was capable of forming her own.

  “Only if Sanford becomes a nuisance,” Maddie said before Jamey could launch another sermon about how he owed her this on his honour.

  He grimaced and shook his head. “Make me a promise?”

  “What?” Maddie asked, wary of his deadly earnest look.

  “When your father dies you will have our betrothal announced in the Gazette.”

  “It will not be necessary,” she began.

  Jamey bristled. “You know the terms of the will. If you are not wed it puts all of you—everything at Sanford’s mercy.”

  “He has a duty to safekeep,” Maddie began to parry.

  “Sanford only keeps things but for himself, as you well know,” Jamey interrupted. “You cannot outwit him, Maddie. I know you mean to try but he is not bacon-brained. It will not do. You will find yourself in the parson’s mousetrap with him.

  “Think of your Aunt Pricilla,” he added. “Sanford will remove her the moment he arrives.”

  Distress filled Maddie at the thought that her beloved flighty maternal aunt who had come to live with them after her mother’s death would suffer too. She hadn’t thought of that. Then she felt Jamey’s hand grasp her wrist.

  “Give me your promise,” he demanded.

  “I will let you know if,” she blinked back sudden tears, “if anything happens to Father.”

  “Our betrothal will forestall Sanford when he learns of Uncle Matthew’s death,” Jamey told her. “We can cry off if someone else captures either of our interests.”

  “Do let it be,” Maddie begged him but saw only her assurance would free him to go. “I promise.”

  Maddie loved Jamey. He loved her. But it was not the love her parents had shared. Not the love she had wanted in marriage before she gave up hope of ever wedding. Maddie tugged Jamey’s last missive from her pocket and began to reread part of the rambling letter.

  London is very low of company at Season’s end. Major Bellaport still watches that we do not stray while we await orders to embark for Portugal. The major is the best of officers.

&
nbsp; Wednesday last he took Goodchurch and me to Gentleman Jackson’s parlour on Bond Street for a boxing lesson. What a punishing right he has—not that he scored many hits on the Champion—no one does. But I am concerned about him. He seems rather low—some problem with his pater, I think. Bellaport is given a wide berth when he has a particular scowl and tugs on his right ear. He does that whenever he is troubled.

  I do wish you and the girls were in London so I could take you to Astley’s Circus. Such feats o’ daring. One rider balanced atop two galloping horses as they careened around the ring! Gads, it was something to behold.

  I had the misfortune of encountering Sanford a week past. He was far too “solicitous” of your father’s health. Aunt Vincouer hints at a match for Agatha. I hope the younger Bennet comes up to scratch.

  Sanford said they would pay a visit to Hart Cottage after their stay at the Bennets. I did my best to dampen this intent by encouraging it. Be careful, Maddie. I fear you have forgotten what he can be.

  Word has it that the main body of the army from Cork under General A. W.’s command has sailed. We are most anxious to join them. We expect to be off at any time barring unfavourable weather. I do not know when I will be able to next write.

  Scribble a note to me if Uncle Matthew’s condition worsens. I can still return to Hart Cottage with a special license.

  With affection

  J V

  Shrugging aside her uneasiness about Sanford, Maddie returned to the house. After a few words with Corrie, the family cook, she joined her aunt in the sitting room.

  Pricilla Benton rose as Maddie took a seat at the writing desk. “Drat, I must have left my extra skein of yarn in my chamber. If you mean to write Jamey, do give him my best, dear.”

  Maddie drew out paper and dipped her pen in the inkwell.

  25 July, 1808

  Dear Jamey,

  I was amazed at the biblical proportions of your latest letter. You have joined the ranks of the scribblers of our day.

  Thank you for the sketch of your troop on parade. I believe I recognized each of your friends.

  My gratitude must go to your excellent Major Bellaport if he succeeds in turning you towards educational pursuits and away from lightskirts and demireps. Yes, my “maidenly modesty” is sadly out of place to write of such creatures.

  Father has improved somewhat. Put your mind at ease on that head. He spends time on his balcony in his basket chair for short spaces these days. It is good to see a touch of colour in his cheeks again. If you see Sanford, please tell him of Father’s improvement.

  I read Malcolm the part of your letter concerning your major’s patience with Lieutenant Goodchurch. It was an excellent example to encourage gentlemanly behaviour. This played rather well into my hands as I wish Malcolm to keep a watch on his sisters. Imagine what a bane it is to have three younger sisters-–two who are intent upon tormenting you and one who adores you.

  The only item of interest about the district is the increase in the local “activity.” I wonder who coined such a phrase for smuggling. The excise men’s inability to put a stop to it is common gossip. Father even received a fresh supply of his favourite “spirits” while Captain Longford visited with him!

  Last week the free traders put abroad a rumour of a landing—gave not the place, but the day and time. The Preventive officer, Captain Longford, marched out a detachment of his men this Thursday past in the early hours of the morning to intercept them.

  As they neared Lime’s Point the Captain heard what sounded, I suppose, like contraband being brought ashore. He and his men ran forward only to tumble into a deep pit that had been disguised with branches and grasses. By the time they succeeded in getting out, everything and everyone was gone.

  Father says it serves them right for trying to meddle with “simple pleasures.” In father’s opinion, the local lads slip over to France to acquire goods and spirits to bolster their incomes and provide for their families. If Captain Longford is replaced by a man with the slightest degree of intelligence, free trading will take a more dangerous turn.

  Keep in good health and safe from danger (including that of Merristorm and demirep sort). Affectionately,

  Maddie signed her name and then heated the wax and sealed the missive. Her thoughts returned to Jamey’s words “when Sanford learns of Uncle Matthew’s death.” Even though he had shown improvement Maddie did not think he would last the winter.

  What, she wondered, if Sanford did not learn of it?

  Chapter Three

  Melgar Abaxo, Spain November 20, 1809 Early Sunday Evening

  Major Quentin Bellaport reread his brother’s letter, delivered that afternoon from England. When he finished he fashioned a desk out of his sabretache and began to write.

  Dear Thomas,

  I beg pardon for what must be a brief note. We are in the saddle more than not which is why I have not written since Corunna. We have more hope of action now than at any other time. Word is that the French are ahead of us beyond Sahagun.

  You ask for a description of the country—General Sir John Moore remains in Salamanca, one of the more handsome cities we have passed through. Indeed, Spain is much preferred over Portugal—the people are friendlier, their homes cleaner.

  But back to Salamanca. Upon approaching its Roman bridge of fifteen arches, one sees the tawny towers (very like Bellum’s if she had all four) and cupolas of a medieval city. I found that the black and white tiles of the Palacio de San Boal where Moore stays, with its ornamental wrought iron balconies daunted more than impressed.

  Rain, in every form, is our constant companion. We passed the artillery struggling along paths that are now rocky bogs. It is hard on our animals. Worse, supplies, even food for troopers and beasts, are daily less at hand.

  I was saddened to learn influenza is in Beachind. You do well to safeguard Father and Lynette by keeping them from the village. I am glad you do not permit Phillip to come from school until the worst is past. Have a care—this illness respects neither age nor health.

  With affection dear brother,

  QB

  As he sanded the missive the door of the hut opened. A strong gust of cold air carried in Danbury.

  “Sorry, old fellow,” Danbury said and shut the door. “It starts to snow again.” He tossed his sabretache beside a cot set up a short space from the lone narrow bed. Warming his hands on the smoky fire in the centre of the room, he glanced at the missive at Bellaport’s feet. “Letters from Bellum?”

  “From Broyal. Influenza in the village.”

  Danbury peered into the pot that hung over the fire in the centre of the hut. “What have John and Jenks concocted for us this eve?”

  “Our batmen had a stroke of luck. Two hares fell their way.”

  They had scarcely finished eating when the door again banged open. Lieutenants Goodchurch and Vincouer staggered in carrying Merristorm between them. They dropped the captain onto a pallet near the door before acknowledging the officers.

  Quentin saw the long white scar that ran an inch below Danbury’s right eye to his jaw twitch at the sight of the apparently drunken Merristorm. Bellaport watched Danbury pick up a blanket from his cot and tossed it atop the man.

  “Is he alright?” Bellaport asked.

  Jamey pulled away from Goodchurch’s warning grip. “Too much wine—again.”

  “Do not worry, Bellaport,” Danbury noted softly. “His head will be clear enough when it comes to a charge. It always is.”

  Quentin ran a finger down his nose and pulled at his right ear. “Our batmen snagged some hares this afternoon.” He motioned to the pot over the smoky fire and then went to his cot and picked up a paper.

  “This came with the dispatches from London,” he said as he handed it to Jamey. “Sorry, Goodchurch, there was none for you,” he told the pale, lanky young man.

  “My family isn’t one for writing,” Vicar answered with a shrug.

  Jamey stuffed the letter inside his jacket and accepted a bow
l of stew from Goodchurch. He sat on the floor.

  Quentin went to the other chair when the Lieutenant gestured to it. He poured wine into the lieutenants’ cups and refilled his and Danbury’s.

  “Any word about when we move out?” asked Goodchurch.

  “Before dawn. Mayhaps we shall yet meet the French.” Quentin saw the young lieutenants exchange eager smiles and wondered if he had ever been so young.

  A comfortable silence fell as they ate their supper.

  After Jamey gulped down the last bite of stew, he took up his letter and broke the seal. He smoothed the rumpled sheet over his leg and then scanned it.

  “Who is it from?” Vicar asked.

  “Cousin Maddie,” Jamey said without looking up. “Written in September,” he said and, as he often did, read parts of the letter to his companions.

  I sit watching Helene and Jessamine playing with their dolls and Aunt Prissy with her embroidery at the side of the fire while Ruth reads to us. I cannot but pray you and your Lieutenant Goodchurch are as safe as we when you read this.

  I did not feel quite so charitable towards the girls earlier today after I sent Ruth to help Corrie pick apples in the orchard.

  “Corrie is their cook,” he interjected.

  Naturally, Helene and Jessamine begged to go. Since I was busy with Father, who does not fare quite as well as when I last wrote, I consented.

  Later Corrie told me the girls had not returned from picking apples. Such industry did not sound at all like them. I went to see what mischief they were about.

  When I reached the orchard, I heard their laughter—you will never guess what they were doing. Ruth had helped Jessie and Helene into a tree. She had them stamp on branches to bring down apples and was engaged in an ‘apple’ fight with the Dashwood boys.

  As I came up behind the girls one of the boys threw a half rotten apple which caught me in the shoulder. I wish you could have seen the look on their faces. I know—you wish you could have seen the look on MY face. I was hard put not to burst out laughing. Sometimes I yearn for the freedom to join in such childish fun.