The wounded embarked last. In the first pale light of morning the litters were borne through the streets to the quayside. As the parade of gaunt, bloody men passed by, the townspeople crossed themselves. Between them, Daniel Runyon and Tom Pickering dragged Julia to her feet and marched her off behind the litters, Daniel reciting a litany of “You promised, missus. He was happy because you promised. Remember your promise. You have to go home because you promised.” And, as she balked and tried to turn back, “Damn it, Julia, you bloody well promised!”
From the deck of their ship they stood at the rail and watched as an honor guard bore the body of General Sir John Moore along the ramparts on the way to his burial. On the ridge behind the battlefield the French guns were long gone, laboriously lowered down the backside of the ridge with ropes held fast by men and mules. The French had been saved from a complete rout only by the fall of Sir John Moore and Marshal Soult dared not risk a possible renewal of the conflict. If he could not break the British Army, he would damn well save his cannon.
So the British fleet—all two hundred and fifty ships—hoisted sail and exited the harbor at La Coruña without a shot being fired. The only sounds were the shouts of the sailors, the slap of billowing canvas, the high keening screech of gulls as the British armada slipped out to sea. Left behind were their dead, the rotting corpses of their horses, a city of shattered windows and shattered nerves.
A major and a monk.
Chapter Four
Ebadiah Woodworthy, at two and forty, was in the prime of life. On the infrequent occasions when he paused to consider his accomplishments, he felt more than a modicum of satisfaction. His circle of clients ranged from Nottingham to the west, Boston on the east and as far south as Peterborough. He had recently acquired a modest country house and had ventured his first risk capital on a trading voyage to the Orient. His brown hair, though receding at the forehead, revealed no hint of gray. Deceptively lazy dark eyes and a lean figure, well attired in the latest London fashion, completed the portrait of a successful solicitor with a wide range of wealthy clients.
The latest of whom promised to be a great deal of trouble.
Mr. Woodworthy took his time perusing the various papers presented to him by the alleged Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton. While doing so, he attempted to ignore the unwavering stares of the lady’s two companions, a ragged soldier and an equally shabby maidservant. Such persons as these had never before entered the elegant confines of his office. Mrs. Tarleton—the alleged Mrs. Tarleton—was in slightly better case, he conceded. Her dark blue traveling gown, though worn and outmoded, was of good quality. He supposed he should be grateful. A female riding at the tail of an army could have been an out-and-out tart.
Julia, well aware of Ebadiah Woodworthy’s piercing appraisal, gratefully acknowledged her foresight in packing one decent gown. Unwilling to wait until the army could sort out their trunks from whatever ship they had been on, Julia, Daniel and Meg had left their direction with a harried Quartermaster and set out for London and the Great North Road. To each of them The Willows had become the golden beacon promising peace, a haven from the horror behind them, a place to grieve and find the hope of renewal. And now, amidst the calm civility of Lincolnshire—stalwart survivors though they were—they quailed before Ebadiah Woodworthy’s basilisk stare.
The solicitor held Julia’s marriage lines by one corner as if to imply the document so tainted as to soil his pristine fingers. “All these people witnessed your wedding?” he inquired smoothly. “How extraordinary.”
Julia assured him the major had wished it.
Once again Mr. Woodworthy peered at the document. “You must know that I am familiar with the major’s signature, ma’am. This, I assure you, is a most unlikely facsimile.”
“He was dying, you fool!” Daniel Runyon, no longer able to contain his anger at the solicitor’s attitude, minced no words.
Julia bit her lip. This was but one more nightmare to be endured. Calmly, she explained the signatures below Nicholas’ scrawl. “If you wish, both Dr. Channing and Mr. Wedderburn, the chaplain, can be located through Horse Guards. I assure you they will confirm that all happened exactly as we have told you.”
Ebadiah Woodworthy lowered the marriage certificate to his desk and picked up the major’s will, leaving the anxious trio in his office to suffer in silence. Lastly, he spent long minutes over Colonel Litchfield’s will. “The matter is clear,” Mr. Woodworthy finally pronounced. “Whether or not you are married to Major Tarleton, you have been left in my care by the provisions of the major’s will as well as your father’s, Miss Litch—Mrs. Tarleton. In the eyes of the law, Major Tarleton is your legal guardian and as I am his representative, you have become my responsibility.”
Julia could not keep tears from springing to her eyes. The last great hurdle had been passed. They had a home. Behind her, Daniel Runyon swallowed and flexed his fingers, stiff from the nervous grip he had kept on the satchel with their money. Meg O’Callaghan ducked her head, wiping her eyes with her cuff.
Ebadiah Woodworthy considered himself a perceptive man but only now did it occur to him that if the chit were truly married to Tarleton, it would be most foolish to treat her poorly. Compromise was necessary. “Since the marriage certificate seems to have been signed by half the British army,” he pronounced, choosing his words with care, “I have no objection to your styling yourself Mrs. Tarleton while I make inquiries. There is, however, one difficulty you may not have anticipated.”
Three pairs of eyes focused on the solicitor’s face. Every word he spoke rang with the authoritative tones of a judgment from the high bench and none of them had the strength left to argue.
“As far as the law is concerned, Major Tarleton still lives. I can abide by the provisions of guardianship but I cannot execute the will until we have official notification of the major’s death. Given the circumstances, this may be difficult to obtain. But until that time, Miss…Mrs. Tarleton—even if doubt should extend after you reach your majority—I fear you will not have any control of the estate.”
The facts were inarguable. In an era when women were not allowed to control money unless it was specifically willed to them—as Nicholas Tarleton thought he was doing—Julia had no legal right to protest Ebadiah Woodworthy’s control of her life. That she could not marry again, transfer the estate to a new husband or move the estate out of Ebadiah Woodworthy’s hands had not yet occurred to any of the trio.
It was only with some difficulty that the solicitor restrained a triumphant smile.
* * * * *
“He’s a bad ’un, missus, I can tell,” declared Meg O’Callaghan as soon as they were out of the building. “Me pa taught me about men like ’im. Smooth as glass they be and’ll have y’r money off ya quick as cat c’n lick ’is ear.”
In spite of her name, Meg O’Callaghan was a product of the streets of London, her father’s opinions of solicitors not unnaturally colored by his frequent brushes with the law. Other than a natural pixie-like beauty, her qualifications for the post of lady’s maid consisted of quick wit, a quicker tongue and a willingness to learn. Julia, who had never before enjoyed the services of any but an occasional housemaid, coped with the problem of training Meg in her usual direct fashion. Her priorities were perhaps not those recommended by London’s more elite employment registeries. During the voyage from Spain she had begun to teach Meg O’Callaghan to read. She had also attempted to improve her speech. Reading was progressing remarkably well. Speech was not.
“Aye, she’s right, missus,” Daniel agreed. “Woodworthy’s not so worthy, I’m thinkin’.”
“I can’t help but agree,” Julia sighed, “but what we can do about it I can’t imagine. We’re fortunate he didn’t find some devious way to turn us out into the street. We shall have to go softly with Mr. Woodworthy. Though it goes much against the grain, he holds our lives in his hands. Or mine at least. You are both free to make your lives elsewhere.”
“As if I ever would!” Me
g cried. “You’ve treated me like a real person. And to live in a ’ouse in t’ country and ’av a chance fer to be a lady’s maid. Oh, missus, y’ll not send me away!”
The maid’s vehemence brought a thin smile to Julia’s lips. “Of course I won’t send you away, goose. I merely wanted you to know you were not bound, as I am, by Ebadiah Woodworthy’s edicts. Daniel?”
“If you think for one minute I’d leave you, missus, you’re far less of a woman than I took you to be,” Daniel declared stoutly.
In the middle of the narrow walkway Julia halted, taking each of her stalwart companions by the hand. “Thank you,” she choked, eyes blurring. “It’s a pact then. We’ll face the wilds of Lincolnshire together.”
Embarrassed, Daniel ducked his head, mumbling, “They do say it be the most quiet corner of England, missus. Doubt you’ll be needing us at all.”
* * * * *
The Bell and Candle was a coaching inn of some respectability on The Great North Road. The sign over the broad entrance to its cobbled courtyard creaked in the February wind as the weary trio sloshed through the remains of a wet snowfall and entered the inn. Earlier that day they had left the rest of their meager luggage in care of the ostler, though the canvas bag that held Julia’s tattered brown gown, heavy with coins, and the major’s money pouch, rode in a pack on Daniel’s back. The inn’s main door gave directly onto a large common room, redolent with ale, roast meat, wood smoke and unwashed bodies.
Since the ostler had assured them there were plenty of rooms available, the weary travelers were disconcerted to find the common room, which was also the taproom, packed to capacity, every chair, bench and settle filled with men attacking great platters of mutton and tankards of local brew. The travelers paused just inside the doorway, achingly aware of how they must appear. Two women wrapped in the tattered remnants of the cloaks they had worn in Spain, Daniel equally shabby in his torn and faded uniform.
A burly red-faced man erupted from the crowd and bore down on them in a manner not dissimilar to the charge of a bull Julia had once seen at a corrida in Spain. “Out!” he bellowed. “This is a respectable house. We don’t serve beggars. Out, out!”
“A fine way to speak to a lady!” Meg O’Callaghan roared right back.
As Daniel stepped forward ready to do battle, Julia gripped his arm, the colonel’s daughter suddenly appearing from behind the bone weary, ill-dressed façade of the young woman the landlord was so ready to shun. “And what kind of Englishman are you, pray tell?” she inquired, her voice falling clearly on a room resounding with sudden silence. “Boney’s building an invasion fleet a scant few miles across the channel and you scorn those who suffered for you at Corunna?” Her contemptuous gaze swept from skewering the gaping landlord to encompass the entire room. “Here you all sat gorging on mutton and swilling ale while Britain’s army died for you. We—Daniel, Meg and I—we were with the men who slowed the tap of the hammers building Boney’s boats.”
Julia turned her blazing eyes back to the landlord. “You dare…you dare tell two women who watched their husbands die at Corunna that you have no room at the inn! I am Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton of The Willows. We’ve come straight from Spain. We are not beggars and we will have a room.”
“The major’s dead?” A strong masculine voice cut across the pregnant silence. “Nick Tarleton’s dead, you say?”
Julia’s burst of emotion had drained what little strength she had left. She clutched Daniel’s arm as she regarded the stranger who had entered from an inner hallway. “We are not sure,” she murmured. “He was sorely wounded. It’s possible he still lives.”
“Billings!” the stranger snapped at the landlord, “see to rooms for the lady at once. And give her my private parlor. Snap to it, man.”
In a matter of moments a solid oak door had shut out the rising buzz of comment and speculation in the common room and the refugees were warming themselves before a crackling fire. The remarkably deflated and obsequious landlord apologized profusely, promising a hearty meal forthwith. As Billings scurried off to make good on his assertions, the stranger seated the women on a small sofa before the fire, waving aside all attempts to thank him. After a swift examination of Julia’s strained face, he poured a tot of brandy and handed it to her.
Julia nodded her thanks, raising her clear blue eyes in appeal. “Would you mind, Sir? I know my companions are in need of brandy as well.”
“You’ll be pleased to forgive our ways, Sir,” Daniel Runyon interjected swiftly, fully conscious of the incongruity of a batman and a lady’s maid being served by a gentleman, “but we’ve been through some rare bad times, the three of us. It will take us a wee bit to remember how to go on among the English.” Encouraged by a glint of wry amusement in the stranger’s eyes, Daniel ventured to add, “I promised the major I’d look after his lady, so I trust you’ll not take offense if I ask your name.”
Their rescuer had already handed Meg O’Callaghan a tot of brandy and now held out a glass to Daniel, his glint of humor broadening into a smile. “It is the major who is well served,” he approved. “Jack Harding at your service. Estate agent to the Earl of Ellington.”
Estate agent. Not bloody likely, thought Daniel. Estate agents were little better than upper class servants. Second sons of second sons of the landed gentry. Or poor relations, bastard sons. Aye, that was likely the case. A man who gave orders like the most arrogant nobleman or strode across a room as if he owned it was no man’s servant. The earl’s by-blow, more like. Which might also account for the iron behind his aristocratic arrogance. Jack Harding was six feet of hardened muscle, topped by windswept locks of chestnut hair that curled about his ears. He was dressed well enough in country clothes but a hint of danger lurked about him. Energy, barely leashed, which might explode at any moment. An able friend, Daniel judged but a poor man to cross.
Julia introduced herself and her companions, adding, “You knew the major, Mr. Harding?”
“In years past, when Nicholas visited his aunt, we shared some good times.” Jack Harding paused, visions of sun-dappled trout streams, fleeing rabbits and startled partridges, moments of undeniable mischief chased through his head. As he and Nick grew older, they had shared other adventures. Not reminiscences meant for a grieving widow. “Later,” Jack said, “we shared a pint or two…and talked.” In an oddly boyish betrayal of emotion Jack Harding thrust a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “My condolences, Mrs. Tarleton. He was a good man, I liked him.”
“Daniel?” Julia turned away, gazing fixedly into the fire, while Daniel Runyon took Jack Harding to a far corner of the room and gave him a brief summary of their last days in Spain, finishing just as the door opened to admit a procession of Billings, his good wife and two maids carrying an array of heavy trays.
Ignoring the bustle around the table, Harding returned to Julia, kneeling down so he might look up into her face which was as pale as a marble statue. His casual admiration for her stoic calm had taken on a new awareness. “My apologies for intruding on your grief, Mrs. Tarleton. Since we are to be neighbors, I look forward to becoming better acquainted. And now, you must be wishing me to the devil. I trust you will enjoy your supper.”
As he started to rise, Julia reached out impulsively and touched his hand. “Please stay, Mr. Harding. We are deeply indebted to you. I was at a standstill, my small rebellion quite at an end. If you had not interceded, I think I would have fallen where I stood.”
A warm glow lit the powerful contours of their rescuer’s strikingly handsome face. “Never, Mrs. Tarleton. I’ll not believe it. You’re made of sterner stuff.”
Julia acknowledged his compliment with a gracious smile. “Indeed, we cannot put you out of your parlor. You will dine with us, I insist.”
“I doubt Mr. Harding’s accustomed to dining with a batman and a lady’s maid, missus,” Daniel cautioned.
“That cock won’t fight, Runyon,” Jack retorted. “I thought we’d settled that matter. Not to mention the food
grows cold while we quibble. Cut line, man…or do you think me not grand enough to dine with your lady?”
This last was purred to the accompaniment of glittering green eyes and a catlike stillness which sent a shiver through Daniel’s Irish soul. “Nay, lad, I’m thinkin’ I’d much rather have you as a friend than as an enemy. And the good Lord knows the missus will skin me if I stand here jabbering when she’s already invited you to join us.” Daniel stepped back and allowed the enigmatic Mr. Harding to offer Julia his escort to the laden table. Daniel, in turn, with his first smile in a good many hours, offered his hand to Meg O’Callaghan, seating her at the table with all the formality Jack Harding showed to Julia Tarleton.
Within minutes the travelers recognized that they had tapped into a mine of information on their new world. Possibly Jack Harding felt the pull of old friendship, perhaps the poignant appeal of a lady newly widowed, or simply admiration for their heroic survival but he talked to them with a rare freedom. When speaking of matters in the area from Grantley to Nottingham, he veiled his anger, scorn and contempt with little more than a thin coating of humor. From the squire to the vicar to the social lionesses of neighborhood, his thumbnail sketches spared no one’s sensibilities.
As Harding moved on to more serious matters, the traveler’s faces grew longer, worry once again rearing its ugly head. Apparently, their dreams of peace, quiet and safety had gone a bit wide of the mark. Though mobs of angry farm workers and factory laborers were a far cry from Napoleon’s Grande Armée, the refugees began to fear they had moved from one war zone to another.
“You speak of enclosures, Mr. Harding,” Julia said. “I’ve lived out of the country most of my life and I confess it’s a word I’ve heard but never understood.”
“That’s the trouble, Mrs. Tarleton,” Jack Harding returned. “There’s little thought given to the problem by any but the landowner who thinks only of more money and the farm worker who finds himself starving.” Jack’s fork clattered onto his plate. He gripped the edge of the table. “My apologies, ma’am! That was uncalled for. ’Tis true enough but no criticism of yourself was intended. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll try to explain.”
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