by Joan Vincent
Lest you think I was too strict with them, their punishment (my sisters’ as well as their cohorts) was to gather all the apples that were not bruised and take them to Corrie. I had the Dashwoods distribute those she did not want to our cottagers.
Yes, I did tell them I would check if they had done so. You have taught me well, Jamey.
Vicar sniffed and thumbed tears from his eyes. “Lud, the smoke in this place is terrible,” he mumbled. “What I missed by being an only child. Any other news?”
A frown crossed Jamey’s features. “She does not expect her father to live much past the start of the new year.” He shook his head. “Her brother turned but six and ten in November.”
“This is the girl you are to marry?” asked Danbury from his cot.
“Damme, I hope not. I mean—well, it is all rather a hobble. Only solution at hand, you know.”
Goodchurch snorted.
Jamey bridled. “The majors both said the only answer was to find Maddie a husband.”
“Not to refine on it too much, but I said a husband, not you specifically,” Danbury said and rolled over. “Damme sires always want control,” he added cryptically.
Jamey stood and pushed a hand through his hair. “There isn’t a meaner, greedier sort than Sanford. I must wed Maddie if all else fails.”
“She sounds a good sort,” Goodchurch offered. “Wedding her would end your mooning over the lieutenant-colonel’s daughter.”
“As if young pups like either of you would know what to do with the Glacier,” Danbury reproved them.
“You shouldn’t call Miss Mayer-Boden the Glacier,” Vicar told Danbury. “Jamey did really mean what he said about her. He surely didn’t mean to have everyone pick up the—”
Glaring at Vicar, Jamey cut him off, “I know exactly what I intended and that sobriquet fits—”
“Leave off,” ordered Bellaport.
Merristorm struggled to sit up. “Did ya say lieu’ent-colonel’s chit? Hair of spun gold, eyes as blue as a leadwort bloom.” The captain raised a hand to his head. “Damme, my head hurts.” He fingered a sore lump. “Where’d this come from?”
“I should have hit—” Jamey began.
“Go to sleep, Merristorm,” Quentin commanded.
The captain looked at him through wine-hazed eyes and then fell back on his pallet.
“Beauty in distress is much the most affecting beauty,” Danbury quoted from his cot.
“You,” Bellaport pointed at Jamey, “outside. Now.”
The lieutenant looked to object but then shrugged. On the porch, Jamey hunched his shoulders against the cold wind.
Bellaport joined him. “If I knew what happened with you and Merristorm I would put you on report. In future, take care not to betray yourself in front of fellow officers.”
“He manhandled the Glacier, called her a bit o’muslin which we all know she is not,” Jamey protested.
“Use your head.” Quentin put a hand on Vincouer’s shoulder. “Merristorm is in his cups and may not remember, but he can be dangerous. Drunk or sober his swordplay is better than yours. You have enough worry in preventing the French from putting a period to you.” Bellaport’s scowl lessened. “If nothing else, think of your Maddie.”
“She is not my Maddie.”
Quentin dropped his hand. Vincouer’s tone made him fear for a woman he knew only through the young man’s sketches and her letters. “You mean not to honour your promise to her?”
“Of course I do.” Jamey looked away. “If it comes to it.”
“Then stay out of trouble. The lieutenant colonel will take care of his daughter.”
Jamey gave the briefest nod and went back inside.
Bellaport stared into black night. The scene described in Maddie’s letter was sharp before him. If filled him with a deep longing, but for what, he was not certain.
* * *
Hayward, England December 5th Monday
Maddie and her Aunt Pricilla sat before the warmth of the fireplace. Candles beside each weakly battled the winter darkness. A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. It startled the elder from her reverie.
“Dear, oh dear, I am sure I do not know what we are to do. Poor Matthew.” Aunt Prissy sighed. “He cannot go on much longer, my dear. And then,” she shivered, “your cousin Sanford will bring his dreadful mother. Oh, dear. I shudder at the very thought of their last visit.” She wrung her handkerchief. “Maddie, you must think of something.”
Maddie put the letter in her lap away. Aunt Prissy had always been the “plain” Benton, her sister Lucinda far outshining her. But after six years with them, her short sturdy form, round face with its blunt nose, sparkling hazel eyes, and an abundant head of grey hair always covered with a white cap, Maddie loved her dearly.
Going to her, Maddie placed a comforting hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “Do not trouble yourself. Sanford will not come.”
Miss Benton sighed and then motioned at Maddie’s pocket. “How is dear Jamey? What is the news?”
“He wrote about that Convention of Cintra over in Portugal. You remember I read how the press called the generals “Dowager” Dalrymple and “Betty” Burrard. Jamey hopes the court of inquiry will clear Wellesley. Sir John Moore has taken command.
“But the news is old. His letter took over nine weeks to arrive.”
Maddie patted her aunt’s shoulder. “You should retire. You put far too much strain on your eyes in this poor light.”
Aunt Prissy threw a pleading look at her niece. “But what do you mean to do about our difficulty? Whatever shall you do?”
Her aunt’s worried cast twisted Maddie’s heart. “I shall soon decide what course we will follow,” she assured her and went to check on her father.
The course is set, Maddie thought as she entered her father’s bedchamber. After her conversation that morning with the physician, Mr. Balfor, she had put her plan in motion.
“You will like as not find he has slipped away. Do not let it alarm you,” Mr. Balfor told Maddie.
“Then someone will sit with Father at all times.”
“There is no need,” the doctor insisted. “He is comfortable and will not know anyone is with him. Besides your butler Maves is too old. Your Aunt Benton is too nervous and the children are too young. If Malcolm were here—”
“He will be home for midterm. I did not think it best to call him back from school before times.”
“But he could help, Madeline. It will not be much longer. I do not know how your father has held on for such a protracted time.”
“He has always been a man of strong character.”
“Dammed stubborn more like,” the doctor snorted with the familiarity allowed an old friend.
Maddie grinned. “Yes, that too. It is the Vincouer’s besetting sin.” She paused, then boldly continued. “The barrister comes on the morrow. Father will sign over powers of attorney to me. That should ensure the success of my plans.”
Mr. Balfor laid a hand on her arm. “Please reconsider this mad scheme. Perhaps there is another way.”
“Do you mean to withdraw your support?”
Believing she would attempt to carry off her audacious, even mad plan to conceal her father’s death when it occurred regardless, he said, “I will not. Have you written to young Vincouer?”
“Of course, Mr. Balfor.”
His eyes brightened with suspicion. “I know you write him, Madeline. But that is not what I meant—as you well know.”
“I have written Jamey, but I have received only two letters. He does not mention mine,” she temporised.
“Give me your word to write him of your father this very day,” Dr. Balfor demanded, “or my support ends.”
Meeting his gaze, Maddie nodded.
“Your word?” he demanded.
Her fingers crossed in the folds of her skirt, Maddie answered, “Of course, Mr. Balfor.”
“I shall arrive a bit earlier than ten tomorrow to see how Matthew has passed the night. I can answer the barri
ster’s questions and give assurances as to your father’s wishes.”
“Mr. Lawson has handled all of Father’s affairs. I believe he will not think it too odd,” Maddie assured the doctor, her uncertainty concealed with a bright smile.
Maddie shivered at the memory and realized how cold it was. Despite the closed shutters, the gusty wind rattled the windowpanes and the double doors leading onto the small balcony off her father’s bedchamber. She stirred the glowing embers in the fireplace and added wood.
Going to her father’s bedside, she sat in the chair, now a permanent fixture, and took his hand. “How cold you are. Father dear, please stay with us. Please stay a while longer.”
Matthew stirred. He tried to return his daughter’s grip and failed. “Maddie, you should be abed.”
“Your fire needed tending.”
“Maves would see to it. You worry too much about me.”
Easing another pillow behind him, Maddie restrained burgeoning dismay. “Mr. Lawson will call on the morrow. He brings the papers we requested. Do you remember, Father?”
He gave a weak smiled. “Yes. Are you certain?”
“Very much so,” she assured him. “Mr. Balfor will also be here in the morn—to answer any questions Mr. Lawson may have.”
“Good.”
Maddie saw his eyes begin to fill with tears. “Do not worry, Father. All will be well.”
“I know child. I just regret—”
“Save your strength for the morrow.”
“But you take up such a burden.”
“Only until Jamey returns,” she assured him with a forced smile. “You may rest easy with that knowledge.”
He nodded, and then managed to press her hand as she kissed his cheek. “You have the Vincouer heart, my child. May it not lead you into harm.”
* * *
Back in her icy bedchamber Maddie tugged on her flannel night shift and scrambled beneath the bed covers. She turned on her side to better use the candlelight and drew the covers close before rereading Jamey’s letter.
1 November 1808
Dear Cousin,
I must rush to get this writ in time for it to go with the dispatches back to England so please forgive my scribbling.
We made a damnable crossing—crammed together with no regard for either man or beast. The weather could not have been fouler—it took more than seven weeks to catch sight of Corunna. I am most anxious to get my horses on land.
We went ashore but the troopers were not allowed to disembark at first. Some Banbury tale about the city being unable to support so many. General Baird soon put it to rights.
Major Quentin has gone out of his way seeing to the comfort of the troopers. Whenever the major is confronted with shabby work or effort, he gives fair warning with that tug on his right ear. That action alone resolves much.
“Vicar” has proven a good travelling companion despite his constantly spouting bible verses. Whenever something occurs he insists it is “a sign from God.” If not for Major Quentin, he would take an awful drubbing for it.
Rumour has it that we will soon meet the French. It is finally time to join in the dance instead of being wallflowers.
I receiv’d your letters of 25 August and 5 September before we sailed. May this find your father improving and the family well. My kindest regards to all.
Your affectionate cousin,
J. Vincouer
P.S. I remain committed to our marriage as I said.
Maddie put the letter aside with a wry smile at the footnote. She extinguished the candle and snuggled under the covers. Don’t fear, Jamey. I won’t hold you to it. On the morrow MY plan begins.
* * *
Galician Mountains, Spain December 31st Saturday Afternoon
“Bloody damme,” Quentin bit out as his stomach growled and clenched. “What I would give for the clothes and biscuits destroyed or looted at Benavente.” He glanced up at the rugged mountains they traversed, and failed to quiet his fear of the vicious winter weather. Nettling sleet and snow flurries had increased the difficulty and added almost insurmountable hazards to the retreat.
Dispatches taken from a French courier had revealed that Napoleon himself pursed them. The danger of being caught between Soult and Napoleon had left General Sir John Moore no choice but to order the present retreat to Corunna where he trusted transports awaited to take the army out of danger.
Quentin’s mount, Hellion, stumbled on the trail’s icy rocks. An icy rivulet ran down Bellaport’s thick neck as he fought to keep the animal on its feet. Several horses had had to be put down already. He had no desire to join the horseless hussars as they slogged on foot through ice-covered mud and rocks.
His mount steady-footed again, Quentin hunched his shoulders in a vain effort to conserve body heat beneath the ice coated greatcoat that covered his drenched uniform. This day had proven far worse than the bone chilling eleven-hour ride to Mayorga.
Mayorga. Has it been just ten days ago? he mused. To think at that time I believed I could never be wetter or colder. Quentin wriggled fingers numbed by the cold. But, he thought pragmatically, if Vincouer had not aided me when those chasseurs cornered me, I would be worse than cold.
This thought and the bleak winter sky deepened the foreboding that had plagued him since early morn. Then Quentin’s stomach twisted. On the side of the trail a woman and three children sprawled in frozen death beside an overturned baggage wagon.
At a shouted “Halloo,” Bellaport looked back. What can Vincouer want?
“My God, we cannot even keep the women and children ...” Jamey snapped staring down at the frozen tableau.
Bellaport watched him determinedly pull his gaze away and swallow hard. Then the young lieutenant shook his head and spoke.
“General Paget wants us to push on and reconnoitre ahead. I’m to go back when we find an area fit to make a stand.” Jamey gave a half-hearted grin. “We’ve caught up with the Treasurer carts again. The bullocks need to be changed out, but after the blistering peel he got, the Paymaster General decided to try to keep the current ones on their feet.”
The lieutenant shielded his eyes and peered at the train of the retreating army winding around a curve far ahead to the right. “Is that the Glacier?” He glanced over his shoulder. Jamey gasped. “Bloody hell, she may end up like those poor souls.”
“Best keep your mind on your duty,” Quentin cautioned. “Let’s move on before we freeze our bloody hides.”
Jamey spurred forward but Bellaport overtook him. As he began to pass the lieutenant, a low rumble caused both men to rein in their startled mounts. They scanned the mountainous terrain to the right beyond the sheer drop and then looked up the rugged wall on their left. A flurry of rocks bounced from far above their heads onto the trail and arched into the emptiness beyond it.
“Get out of the way!” Quentin yelled and slapped the rump of Jamey’s horse. “Landslide!” he shouted to warn those ahead and behind. Larger rocks showered the trail and careened over the side as Bellaport spurred his gelding.
There was a sharp snap, then Hellion’s forelegs buckled. A rock caught Bellaport on the shoulder and pushed him towards the chasm. He twisted and fought to free his feet from his stirrups.
Jamey reined sharply, leaned low over the side of his saddle and snatched a hold on the major’s greatcoat. “My stirrup,” he screamed.
Dirt, snow, ice, and rock showered them.
Quentin somehow managed to kick his feet free and pushed off against Hellion. He gained purchase on Vincouer’s stirrup. The lieutenant attempted to drag him back from the edge.
A rock caught Quentin on his other shoulder. The pain rocked his hold. A flash of pain and a blinding light ended coherent thought.
Chapter Four
Bembibre, Spain January 1, 1809 Early Hours Sunday Morning
Danbury gently laid Bellaport’s shirt and dolman back in place. He stood and clamped a hand on Vincouer’s shoulder. “You did a damme fine job.”
His usual bored demeanour had slipped as he examined his friend but it was now back in place. “Cover him with those blankets I brought. I will try to get back but things are likely to blow up in our faces. I doubt our troopers will ever get the drunken infantry sots moving in time to save them from the French chasseurs.” Danbury looked around the small hut. “Have you anything to give him when he regains his senses?”
Jamey shook his head. “Jenks is out scavenging.”
Captain Merristorm roughly pushed aside the blanket hanging where the door had been before the British infantry kicked it in. He halted when he saw Danbury.
The lieutenant and major looked from the bottle of wine in one of the captain’s hands to the tin bucket in the other.
Merristorm raised the bottle in salute. “The major?”
“Badly bruised but he shall live if that head wound is no worse than I think.” Danbury tugged on his gloves. “Be careful not to linger much past daybreak.” At their answering nods, he flicked the blanket aside and was gone.
“This will help Bellaport with the stiffness.” Merristorm handed the wine to the lieutenant and the pail to Jamey. “This will warm him. Pour it down his throat if you have to to get it down him.”
Jamey cocked an eye at the questionable brown liquid in the pail. “What is it?”
Merristorm looked up from setting up a crude tripod over the small smoking peat fire. “Soup—garlic soup to be exact, with a touch of port to make it palatable.”
“Where did you find port?” Jamey asked in disbelief.
“Trust someone usually as drunk as a lord to have a nose for liquor,” Merristorm quipped. He took the bucket and hung it on the tripod and stood. “I’ll try to come back at daylight and help get him away.” He brushed a hand across his eyes. “Hellion went over?”
Jamey shuddered at how close the major had come to going over the side with his mount. “It was a damme close run thing just to haul the major back..”
Merristorm nodded grimly. “How are you going to move him?
“Vicar is looking for a cart or a mule.”
