Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  “Hope God hears his prayers,” snorted the captain. He walked to the door. “I have got to check on my troopers. If I find a means of transport, I’ll send it.”

  * * *

  January 1, 1809 Dawn Sunday

  Pain jarred Quentin’s eyes open. He took inventory of it and struggled to will it to the back of his mind.

  “Bellaport?” Jamey hunched over him. “You have been unconscious so long I thought you had bloody well booked out.”

  Quentin recognized the voice but found it difficult to bring the man’s face above his into focus in the dim smoky lamplight. He had heard the conversation the previous night and had tried to speak. Only he hadn’t been able to dredge up, Leave me. Get away. “Where are we?”

  “Bembibre.”

  “Bembibre?” Quentin struggled with rampant confusion. “What day is this?”

  “The new year. Almost dawn,” Jamey told him. “It looks like Boney’s luck isn’t going to change just yet. And our troops have disintegrated into a hopeless rabble. You would not have believed this place when we arrived. Baird’s, Hope’s, and Fraser’s divisions broke every door and window in the place. By the number of drunken sods in the streets, the infantry found wine vats. Stragglers abound.” He prodded the weak fire beneath the tin bucket.

  “We are in a hut at the far end of the village. Vicar is searching for a cart, but Lahoussaye’s French dragoons are getting close. The 15th is attempting to get the sluggards up and moving out of harm’s way.”

  Bellaport squinted. Doing so finally brought the younger man’s grim features into focus. A bluish black bruise coloured the left side of the lieutenant’s face beneath a dark bristle of unshaven stubble.

  “Did you say Goodchurch is getting a cart?” Bellaport tried to move but a wave of pain halted him. “Are you mad?” he protested. “Only an act of God will deliver one into his hands. I must get up.”

  With a shake of his head, Jamey put a hand on the major’s arm. “That wouldn’t be wise even though Danbury found no broken bones. There’s a nasty gash on your forehead and a couple on your legs. There’ll be some lovely bruises too but there isn’t a fair damsel in miles to appreciate them.” The lieutenant grinned crookedly and added, “Merristorm brought some garlic soup.”

  Bellaport, with effort, was able to keep his reaction to the pain when Jamey put an arm beneath his shoulders to a grimace. “The captain found nothing stronger?”

  “’Course he did.”

  “Did he drink it all?”

  “Merristorm’s been stone sober ever since the retreat began,” Jamey protested.

  “Thank God for that. Get the wine.” Quentin accepted the bottle and drank. “I must be hurt worse than I thought. This is not as vile as most of the wine we have had on our trot through Spain.” The bottle suddenly too heavy, he lowered it.

  “Bring the soup but do not tell me what’s in it.” He gasped in pain when he reached for the bowl with his left hand and would have fallen back but for the younger man’s support.

  “Rather nasty blow to your left shoulder, sir. Wouldn’t try to use it too much.” Jamey picked up the cup of steaming soup and pressed it into Bellaport’s right hand. “It will warm you if nothing else.”

  Quentin tipped the cup up to his lips and gulped the hot liquid down as quickly as he could. Despite the nasty taste, cold’s grip began to lessen. “I hope there is more wine.”

  “If we were at Hart Cottage, you’d have the finest French brandy. Not that I would admit such to the Preventives.”

  “Hart Cottage? Your Maddie.” Quentin saw Vincouer grimaced denial but the lieutenant held his tongue. He pictured the woman in Jamey’s sketches and somehow the grimace comforted him. “I remember now—not ‘your’ Maddie.” A frisson of pain careened him back to his purpose. He gripped Jamey’s arm.

  “Thank you,” Quentin told him. “Saving my life is becoming a bloody damme habit with you, but thank you.”

  Jamey shrugged. “Nothing anyone would not have done, sir.”

  “I can think of several who did not risk tangling with the chasseurs who had me cornered just days ago. I owe you my life twice over. How shall I pay such a debt?”

  “’Tis already paid—the gaming hell you rescued us from last year,” Jamey said. “Better you think about how you will climb into a saddle and stay there if Vicar doesn’t find a cart.”

  “Hellion?” He winced when Jamey gripped his good shoulder.

  “Sorry, sir. Went over the side.” He blinked back sudden tears. Then fretted, “I’m beginning to wonder if we will ever see Corunna. If this cold doesn’t kill us, the French mean to do it.”

  “You have someone counting on your return to England. You must see you make it back home.”

  “My grandfather’s dammed will,” Jamey blurted.

  Bellaport heard the exhaustion behind the words, knew the horrors the young man had witnessed. Knew the young man fretted over his cousin. “Vincouer, I pay my debts. Always. On my honour.”

  The lieutenant stiffened. “Of course, Major.”

  The lieutenant had misunderstood. Bloody hell, what do I mean by such words? Closing his eyes, Bellaport saw a cascade of rocks. The snap of Hellion’s foreleg reverberated in his mind along with a hundred other horrendous scenes from the past days. He shuddered. What would happen to those still in Bembibre when the French arrived would be worse.

  “Leave me. I am an officer. The French will treat me well.” He struggled to rise but couldn’t begin to move.

  “Rest, sir,” Jamey said. "I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  To Vincouer’s great relief Vicar greeted him when he stepped outside the hut.

  Goodchurch motioned to a mule so thin its ribs looked like harp strings. It stood there, head hanging down, hooves bleeding. “The French chasseurs will be upon us at any time. O ye children of Benjamin, gather yourselves to flee out of the midst ... for evil appeareth out of the north, and great destruction," he quoted the biblical verse. "We must get the major atop this beast.”

  “Good God, Vicar, he can’t ride. I don’t think Bellaport could manage to stay on that creature even if we got him atop it.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes.

  Goodchurch brought his free hand from behind his back. “That is why I brought this rope. We will tie him on and get away from here tout suite!”

  Slapping him on the back, Jamey exclaimed, “God bless you, Vicar. This is a sign from God if ever there was one!”

  Together they dragged the half-conscious major from the hut and heaved him over the mule. Then, spurred by the ever louder thunder of galloping hooves, gunfire, and dying men’s screams, they lashed Bellaport to the mule.

  Goodchurch scrambled atop his mount and accepted the animal’s reins from Vincouer.

  Leaping into his saddle, Jamey shouted, “Get Bellaport out of here.” His hunter danced about and reared. “Get going, man. Now!” He drew his sabre, swung his mount around, and galloped to meet the chasseurs.

  Torn by the choice before him, Vicar hesitated.

  Hurtling past Goodchurch, Merristorm bellowed, “Get that ass moving,” and followed Vincouer into the fray.

  With a last look over his shoulder after them, Goodchurch spurred his mount forward and dragged the mule after him. He prayed he would not be the one to tell the major what had just occurred.

  * * *

  Hayward, England February 1st Wednesday

  “The gig is here, Maddie,” Aunt Prissy called up the stairs.

  Henry Lundin, Matthew Vincouer’s steward, hastily entered the house propelled by gusting wind. He tugged his wide-brimmed hat from his large head with one beefy hand and pushed the door shut with the other. “Sorry, Miss Pricilla. A nasty sort of day. Wouldn’t be surprised if it blew up a storm.”

  “I do wish Maddie would not go out in it,” Aunt Prissy fretted. She straightened her skirts and patted her high-domed spinster cap back in place atop her grey curls.

  “How is Mr. Matthew?” Henry a
sked. The hint of tears in Miss Benton’s eyes when she briefly met his brought furrows of concern to his wide forehead.

  She laid her hand, small in comparison, on the steward’s pudgy fingers. “Do try to convince her not to do it,” Aunt Prissy pleaded.

  Henry gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll come to no harm going to see the doctor.”

  “I do not mean that.” She met his gaze and looked around the entry hall. “You cannot let her go through with her plans to conceal Matthew’s—death,” Pricilla whispered.

  Lundin tightened his grip. “I don’t see how we can stop her. Not without landing all of us in the basket,” he told her in a firm tone. “How fares Mr. Vincouer?”

  She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to twist it. “He cannot last another week. He cannot.”

  “Cannot what, Aunt?” asked Ruth coming from the salon.

  “I cannot understand your sister insisting on going to Hayward in this weather,” Pricilla sniffed.

  “You know I must, Aunt Prissy,” Maddie said from the stairs. “Mr. Balfor said he would make up a new tonic for father.

  “Henry,” the young woman paused at his disapproving frown. “Mr. Lundin,” she dipped into a formal curtsy, “thank you so much, kind sir, for bringing my carriage to the door.”

  Lundin took hold her elbow and drew Maddie up. “You’re that welcome,” he drawled in amused tones and sketched a bow. When he straightened his demeanour sobered.

  “Mr. Matthew wants me to sit with him?”

  “Yes,” Maddie said with a glance at her younger sister. “He wants to go over some estate business.”

  Conscious of Ruth’s presence, Henry prompted, “Wishes to see if I’ve attended to the selling of those bullocks, eh?”

  “Yes, that was it.” Maddie smiled her thanks.

  “Ruth, would you please fetch my wool pelisse and bonnet. Thank you.” She stepped closer to the steward.

  “Henry, try to reassure Father all will be well.”

  At Maddie’s words Miss Benton urgently poked the steward in the back.

  At the reminder he shifted on his feet. “Miss Maddie, you can’t mean to go forward with—with that plan.”

  Maddie bristled. “Henry Lundin, have you not done as I ordered?”

  “Yes, everything is ready, but—”

  Alerted by the sound of Ruth’s returning steps all three altered their expressions. “Go on up to Father, Mr. Lundin,” Maddie said with one of her sweetest smiles. “I will leave the gig at the stable when I return,” she added, accepting her pelisse from Ruth.

  Henry looked from her to Miss Benton and gave a defeated shrug. “Yes, miss,” he said and headed for the stairs.

  “May I go with you, Maddie?” Ruth asked hopefully. “I have finished my lessons.”

  “If you can have your coat and bonnet on in a trice,” Maddie told her.

  “Aunt Prissy, Helene and Jessamine may do as they wish after they finish their paragraphs.” She looked in the mirror on the sidewall, straightened her bonnet and tied its ribbons. Meeting her aunt’s eyes in the mirror, she forced a heartiness she did not feel.

  “It will be all right, Aunt. Really, it will. You know you cannot abide Sanford.”

  “Is Cousin Sanford coming for a visit?” Ruth asked as she returned, buttoning her coat.

  Aunt Prissy moaned. “I do so pray he will not.”

  “He is not. Come along Ruth.” Maddie brushed a quick kiss across her aunt’s cheek and hurried out into the blustery day.

  The placid mare in the shafts of the light gig neighed a greeting and the ladies climbed up tussling with their wind-blown skirts. The sisters rode in silence until about two hundred yards past the Dashwood cottage.

  “Billy and Hank are teasing something,” Ruth said. She pointed. “See? Down the incline, in the ravine.”

  Maddie followed her sister’s finger and saw the Dashwoods and three other boys. They all waved sticks as they took turns hitting at something on the ground. “Hold the mare.” Maddie handed over the reins and jumped down.

  When she reached the top of the ravine, a gasp escaped Maddie. She had expected to see that the boys teased an animal but now saw they had pinned another child to the ground.

  Maddie shouted, “Release him at once.” She rushed headlong into the ravine. “Billy Dashwood, when I get a hold of you—” Her feet slipped out from under her. "Ohhhhhhhh!” Maddie exclaimed as she slid to the bottom and landed hard on her derrière. Burning anger prevented even a hint of embarrassment and brought Maddie to her feet in one lithe move.

  The boys disappeared even as she did so. She saw the child they had tormented struggling to sit up. By the time Maddie reached him, he was on his hands and knees.

  “Let me help,” she said gently. Maddie reached under his arms and pulled him to his feet. His weight surprised her but not as much as the adult eyes that steadily met her gaze. Maddie involuntarily took a step back.

  The small figure made a low bow. “Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.”

  Maddie struggled to hide her shock at his oddly distorted body.

  “Th—thank—you,” the dwarf struggled with English. “That was good of you, mademoiselle.”

  “I—I am so sorry that the lads—they are not really bad—”

  “You need say nothing more. I am accustomed to such treatment.” He brushed at the mud on his garments.

  “But you are new to the—excuse me.” Maddie offered her hand to the dwarf. “I am Madeline Vincouer.”

  The little man flashed a smile. “Je m’appelle Petit.”

  “Maddie! Maddie, are you all right?” Ruth called from the road.

  “You had best go, mademoiselle,” Petit urged. “I too must hurry or my master will be upset.”

  “But where do you stay?”

  “Madddddieee!”

  “My master is the guest of Monsieur Lambert. But go mademoiselle, and thank you. If ever I can, I will repay your kindness.” He bowed and ran awkwardly in the direction of Prescott House, Lambert’s residence.

  “Madddddieee?!”

  Her skirts in hand, Maddie laboured to the top of the rise and then trudged against the wind back to the gig.

  “What happened?” Ruth exclaimed. “You look like Jessie after a day outside. Should we go back home?”

  “Do not be a ninny, Ruth. A little dirt never hurt anyone,” Maddie answered as she climbed back onto the seat.

  Startled by this scold, Ruth handed over the reins without any protest. “What were they teasing?”

  “A man, though he did not look full grown at first glance. I am not certain what is wrong with him. He is shorter than Billy and has a large head and short bent legs. Someone to be helped, not tormented,” Maddie added, her voice shaking with anger. “He acted like their cruelty was nothing out of the ordinary.”

  She looked pointedly at her sister. “I could almost hear Mother. She was fond of saying that one never knew how important an act of kindness can prove. For one’s self as well as the recipient. I had not thought of that in an age.”

  Ruth squirmed. The memory of her long gone mother reminded her of the dread that haunted her days. “Maddie, how is father? Truly?”

  Putting an arm around her sister of two and ten, Maddie wordlessly drew her close. “Mr. Balfor’s new tisane will help,” she lied. Chagrin brought a lump to her throat when Ruth looked even more worried.

  “What is it?”

  “Cousin Sanford. You said he was to be our guardian?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is not a good man. Once when Jessie was but a babe she hugged his leg and left fingerprints on his breeches. He was very angry and stepped her doll into the mud,” Ruth said. “Then he told Helene and me that something terrible would happen to her if you found out he had done it.” She met Maddie’s gaze with fear-filled eyes.

  “Father looked very bad the last time we were allowed to see him.” Tears roughened her voice. “What will you do, Maddie, when Sanfo
rd becomes our guardian?”

  “Shhh,” Maddie crooned. “Do not worry so. That will never happen. I will take care of us.”

  Chapter Five

  Hart Cottage February 12th

  The depressing grey of the overcast morning hovered in the bedchamber. It seeped deep into Maddie’s mind as she sat at her father’s bedside and strained to see his chest rise and fall.

  Between each breath the pauses grew longer. Maddie winced when she thought she heard a rattle in his throat. The doctor had explained what that foretold.

  A coughing spell wracked Matthew.

  Maddie put an arm under his shoulders and lifted him to ease his gasps. These days he weighed less than Ruth. When the coughing ended, she wiped his lips and tried to ignore the blood on the handkerchief.

  “Maddie,” Matthew wheezed, “bring ... the girls.”

  She shook her head, bit her lip, and willed back tears.

  “I must see them, Maddie.” He coughed weakly. “Bring them before ... too late.”

  Blinking back tears, Maddie went downstairs. She could hear her sisters and aunt in the dining parlour and managed a weak smile before she entered.

  Paper scraps, crayons, and scissors littered the table.

  “We are making Father valentines, Maddie. Aunt Prissy said they would cheer him,” babbled six-year-old Jessamine. She grinned showing the gap where she had lost a tooth just the week past.

  Ten-year-old Helene held up a large uneven heart she had torn from paper. “Look at mine!” She pointed to the large red letters that spelled “Papa I love you.”

  Maddie gulped down the lump that suddenly filled her throat. “They are beautiful,” she declared. “You should give them to Father today. He has asked to see you.”

  Helene frowned. “But it is only two days until Valentine’s Day. We should wait.”

  When Aunty Prissy saw that her niece could not meet her gaze, her heart sank. “Come girls, Maddie is right. It is so grey outside your father needs the cheer your valentines will give him. Do as your sister says.” She shooed them out of their chairs and towards Maddie.