The Sergeant's Lady

by Susanna Fraser

  “There you are,” Helen said from the doorway. Anna started guiltily. “I’d worried…Well, shall I send Beatriz to help you dress? Alec wants us to leave within the hour.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Anna had one final task for Beatriz.

  In a few minutes, the young maid arrived and helped Anna into the sturdiest of her dresses. She winced as Beatriz fastened the buttons. Oddly, the dress was tight through the bodice. It had fit perfectly when she’d made it just a fortnight ago. But she hadn’t time to worry over it.

  “Beatriz, may I ask you a great favor?”

  “Of course, señora.”

  She picked up the note. “Can you take this to Juana Martínez and ask that she give it to Sergeant Atkins?” Going through Juana seemed less conspicuous. No one would notice a local maid speaking to a local laundress.

  “I will go this morning before we march, señora.”

  “Thank you, Beatriz.” She reached through the slit in her skirt for her pocket and took out a guinea and a few smaller coins. “And—please don’t speak of this to anyone.”

  Beatriz tucked the letter into her bodice and tied the coins into a corner of her apron. “I will not, señora. I promise. If it were not for you—I do not know where I would be, but I would not have this good work with the dear little children.”

  Their eyes met. Anna knew that by asking Beatriz to deliver the letter she had essentially confessed her affair with Will. She saw no sign of shock in the girl’s steady dark eyes. Beatriz was in many ways still a child, but Anna supposed in her peasant upbringing and her time with the army she must have seen enough to make her difficult to surprise.

  “Thank you, Beatriz,” she said. “And good luck to you.”

  “And to you, señora. I will go now. If I hurry, I can be back before María or Señora Gordon misses me.”

  They exchanged a last look of understanding, and Beatriz slipped out the door. Anna packed the basic necessities into a saddlebag and tried not to dwell on the horror of the night before. It was much worse than when she had shot the French boy or the bandits. As dreadful as that had been, at least it had been part of the war. But this! She told herself again and again that it had been an accident, that she was no murderer. But it had been her finger on the trigger.

  Helen entered bearing a tray with a steaming cup of coffee and a one of Felipa’s fried pastries. “Breakfast,” she trilled with careful cheer, waving her offering beneath Anna’s nose.

  She had never smelled coffee more bitter nor a pastry so cloyingly sweet. She turned her head aside and sank dizzily down into the chair, resting her head in her hands.

  Helen set the tray on the table and crouched before her. “What is it, darling? Are you ill?”

  She swallowed. “I—I don’t have much of an appetite after last night, I suppose.”

  “I understand but try to eat. You’ll need your strength.”

  Anna took up the coffee, but as she raised it to her lips the nausea returned, and she hastily set it down again. “I can’t. The smell—it’s too strong.”

  Helen narrowed her eyes. “Tell me, when did you last have your courses?”

  “My courses? Everything has been so unsettled that I haven’t thought of them.”

  “Think now.”

  “It must have been—” She almost said the day after Sebastian died, but caught herself just in time. That was over a month ago. Never had her courses been so tardy since they had begun when she was fourteen. They came every four weeks, perhaps a day early, occasionally a day or two late. But never like this—it had been five weeks now, going on six. How could she not have noticed? “But…that’s impossible. I’m barren.”

  Helen took her hands. “Breathe, Anna. I know this is a shock, but the evidence suggests you are not.”

  “But…it can’t be. It must be all the upheaval. You’ve talked of being late when you’re worried or ill.”

  “But you haven’t. And when I’m not increasing, I don’t fall asleep every time I sit still nor nearly cast up my accounts at the smell of coffee.”

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t understand. Two years, and nothing until now.” How could the problem have been Sebastian’s, with that bastard son he’d boasted of? Had his mistress had another man, and either lied to Sebastian or not known who the father was? Anna had never even considered the possibility—but if Helen was right, then it was abundantly clear that she hadn’t been the problem.

  Helen watched her with furrowed brow. “I’m no expert,” she said at last, “but anyone can observe that some women have smaller families than others. Perhaps they conceive less readily, without being quite barren.”

  Anna’s hand stole down to rest on her belly. Will’s child. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’d been so sure they had no cause to fear this particular consequence.

  “Anna, darling,” Helen said softly, “do you want it? No one could blame you if you did not, under the circumstances.”

  Did she want it? She wasn’t even certain she believed it yet. Stunned though she was, she knew the choice she faced: pretend the child was Sebastian’s or bear it in secret and foster it out. The first seemed wrong, and as for the second—how could she endure giving her baby, Will’s son or daughter, to strangers?

  Already this child, whose existence she hadn’t even suspected ten minutes before, was the most important thing in her world. She met Helen’s eyes. “Of course I want it.”

  Helen nodded curtly. “Good. There are concoctions one can swallow if one doesn’t, or so I’ve been told, but they don’t always work, they aren’t always safe, and we need to get you to Lisbon.”

  Anna had momentarily forgotten her other predicament. “But is it safe to take such a journey, with the baby?” The baby. How strange that sounded.

  “You’ll be safer on a mannerly, smooth-gaited horse like Dulcinea than you would be bouncing around in a baggage wagon or on a donkey.”

  “But sailing for England—I got so seasick the last time.”

  “Wait in Lisbon for a month or two. I’m certain Mama would be delighted to have you. If you’re like most women, all the strangeness and nausea will fade by then, and you’ll feel well until you’re too big to move properly. Sail in the autumn, and I believe you’ll do well.”

  “Very well,” Anna replied, her mind whirling.

  Helen considered her again, a speculative gleam in her eye. “Normally, I’d say you’d be confined in March, but don’t be surprised if it’s April or even early May. Babies follow their own calendars, and none are more unaccountable than first babies.”

  Anna blinked at her. Did Helen guess the truth? Suddenly Anna wished she had been more creative in her explanation of Montmorency’s threats.

  Helen blinked back, her blue eyes wide and guileless, her shrewd expression wiped away. “For now you must eat,” she said. “Dreadful as it sounds, if you can keep something down, you’ll feel the better for it.”

  “I’ll try. But Helen, please take the coffee away. The smell is bad enough. I know I cannot drink it.”

  Helen smiled ruefully. “And here I meant to hearten you up.”

  “I’m sorry. It was wonderfully thoughtful of you.”

  “When I was carrying Nell, I couldn’t bear tea, of all things. I’ll drink this myself, and enjoy every sip. Now, try to eat, and I’ll see what else I can find for you to drink.”

  Helen squeezed her hand and left, sipping from the offending beverage as she walked. As soon as the coffee aroma had dissipated, Anna broke off a corner of the pastry, put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. When she managed to swallow successfully, she ventured another careful bite.

  She was so stunned by the events of the night and the morning to be almost beyond thought and emotion. She grieved what had happened to Lieutenant Montmorency—she wasn’t a murderer, she wasn’t—and wished she knew what she or Will had done to draw his suspicion. If only she could turn back time and avoid that carelessness. She knew it had been risky to continue thei
r affair, but she couldn’t wish it all undone. Not any of her time with Will, not the baby.

  Helen returned, an earthenware mug in hand. “Can you bear goat’s milk?”

  Anna considered and found to her surprise that she could.

  They were still sitting together, Anna doggedly working through her breakfast, when Alec hurried in.

  “There you are!” he exclaimed. “I thought you’d be ready by now. The troopers are mounted, and I want you to be well away before the Ninety-Fifth rouses the whole camp over him.”

  Helen opened her mouth but Anna caught her eye and shook her head. She didn’t want Alec to know yet—Helen’s solicitous care and speculative looks were as much as she could bear.

  “I’m ready now,” she said, steeling herself to finish the milk in a single gulp.

  They followed Alec to the village square, where Lieutenant Morse, entrusted with whatever dispatches Alec had been able to find or manufacture, waited with a dozen troopers. Two horses, Dulcinea and a pretty chestnut that had once been Mrs. Kent’s, stood waiting in sidesaddles, along with a small string of remounts.

  Surely none of this was real, and she would awaken soon to the telltale ache of the onset of her courses, with her pistol lying where she had left it, unfired.

  “Come, Anna.” Alec waited at Dulcinea’s shoulder. When she reached him, she noticed a pistol holstered in the saddle, not hers, but one of English make.

  He followed her gaze. “I gave you one of mine,” he said casually. “It fires truer than that French piece of yours.”

  “Thank you, cousin.” She was grateful for his sensitivity—she didn’t want her pistol now, but she knew Alec wouldn’t allow anyone to travel unarmed with so small a party.

  “I’ll miss you, lass,” he said gruffly. “Take care of yourself, and give all the family our greetings.”

  “I shall.” How many years would pass before she saw Alec again? “Keep safe, cousin.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He boosted her into the saddle. As they cantered out of the village, Anna looked back at him to wave. They passed the Rifles’ camp as they rode onto the main road, but she dared not allow her eyes to linger there.

  Within minutes the camp was behind them, and Anna began to accept that she would not awaken from this nightmare.

  Chapter Twenty

  The company was almost ready to march when Captain Matheson called Will aside.

  “Have you seen Lieutenant Montmorency this morning, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  The captain sighed. “No one has, but his tent is still there, with his gear strewn about as if he got up in the night and never returned.”

  “Would you like me to send a few discreet men to the taverns to look for him, sir?”

  “Please do.” He sighed again and raked a hand through his thinning blond hair. “I hope that’s all it is, and he’s just too drunk or caught up with some woman to notice the time.”

  “What else could it be?” Aside from outright desertion, those were the usual reasons for a man of any rank to be missing. But Captain Matheson looked worried.

  “Nothing, I hope. And yet—Montmorency has looked miserable of late.”

  Will nodded. “I’ve noticed. Almost as if something is chasing him.”

  “Exactly. I tried to get him to confide in me, but he wouldn’t. I can’t help fearing—he reminds me of a man I knew—in short, I’m afraid he may have committed a desperate act.”

  Will stared. “Suicide, sir?”

  “I hope not. He has a mother and four sisters back in England.”

  “If he did, that’s the cruelest thing he could’ve done to them.”

  “Which is why all we’ll do is search those taverns. If he did kill himself, I’d rather not find the body, for his family’s sake. If he doesn’t turn up in a few days, I’ll write to his mother and hint of bandits and wild beasts.”

  Will sighed. He supposed he ought to feel something stronger than exasperation, but he couldn’t manage it. Montmorency had been trouble since the day he joined the regiment. “That seems the kindest way, sir.”

  “I’m glad you agree. We’ll hope we’re worried over nothing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After sending three trustworthy riflemen to search for Lieutenant Montmorency and any other stragglers they might happen across, Will returned to the business of breaking camp.

  When they were about to march, Juana hurried up to him and handed him a letter fastened with a wax seal. It was heavy for its size, and he felt a flat oval lump at one end.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Juana raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Arrington’s maid brought it to me and said her mistress asked that I give it to you. She writes to you now?”

  “She never has before.” His amazement was not feigned. What had driven Anna to such a risky pass? He wanted to tear the letter open on the spot, but his curiosity—his anxiety—must wait. He couldn’t read it now, in public and on duty.

  “But you cannot claim that nothing has happened between you if she is writing you. Have you been meeting her all this time?”

  “Believe whatever you wish, but surely you understand that I cannot talk of it!” His vehemence took him by surprise, and he glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention.

  Juana softened. “Poor Will. You never do anything the easy way. Not even falling in love.”

  He snorted. “There’s an easy way to fall in love?”

  “Of course not. But most of us do not try to find the most impossible person.”

  He sighed, unable to deny her words. “Thank you, Juana.” He carefully tucked the letter into his haversack to read later.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “If you change your mind about talking, I promise to keep your secrets and not mock.”

  He covered her hand with his own. “I’ll remember.”

  ***

  Will didn’t get a chance to read the letter until they halted late in the afternoon. As soon as he was sure the company was in good order, he slipped away, sat on a flat rock on the outskirts of camp and took out the letter.

  When he broke open the seal, a heavy golden locket, engraved with a thistle design, fell out. He undid the catch and opened it to reveal a portrait of Anna wearing a white dress with a blue-and-gold tartan sash, her hair, shorter than it was now, falling in ringlets to frame her face. It was a good likeness. The artist had captured her mischievous smile and the lively intelligence and unusual clarity of her green eyes, while resisting the urge to flatter her with a daintier nose or softer features than those with which nature had endowed her. Will could have gazed at the miniature until the sun set and the light faded, but instead he closed the locket and clasped it in his left hand, holding it close to his heart as he unfolded the letter.

  He had never seen Anna’s handwriting before. It was just as he would’ve expected, a lady’s hand, elegant and precise without being delicate or hesitant. He smoothed the page and began to read.

  My dearest Will,

  I write in haste, and perhaps with great imprudence, but my circumstances have changed utterly since last we met. I must ride for Lisbon this very morning, and I cannot bear to disappear without a word to you.

  Mrs. Gordon yesterday received word that her mother, Colonel Isherwood’s wife, who has been in Lisbon since the campaign began, is ill and calls upon her daughter to nurse her. She rides immediately with a courier carrying dispatches, and begs that I bear her company.

  I cannot in good conscience deny her. It grieves me beyond my powers of expression to be parted from you, though we have known the inevitability of such a parting from the beginning. I could wish the world to Hades to remain at your side, but I cannot deny the claims of your duty to your regiment, nor mine to my family—I do not think that we could love each other so well, did we not love honor more.

  I do love you, Will. Now that I am forced to depart, I cannot bear to think that you might believe yourself a mere di
version to me, lightly seized upon and easily discarded.

  I enclose my miniature. It was painted five years ago at Dunmalcolm, and I believe it is still a good likeness. If you do not wish to keep it, you need only find a way to return it to Beatriz and ask that she pack it in my trunk, which will eventually be shipped to me. But I would be greatly honored if you kept it as a remembrance.

  Time and this page grow short. Know that I love you and will always remember you.

  It was signed, simply, Anna.

  Will wept silently, hastily folding the letter and tucking it into his jacket lest his tears spoil it. When it came to the point, she had been the strong one, with the courage to remind them both where their duties lay.

  If only he had a way to tell her how much he loved her, how much he esteemed her for her honor and courage, and had from the day she stepped into that clearing to help Juana. But the only message he could send was one of silence, by keeping her miniature. Of course he would keep it—how could she doubt that?

  When his eyes were dry he opened the locket again. On closer examination, it wasn’t quite his Anna—the face in the portrait still had a girlish softness, and that clever, mischievous expression was also innocent and filled with all the hopeful enthusiasm of happy youth. No, this wasn’t the woman he loved. But it was the girl destined to become her, and from that day forward it would be his greatest treasure.

  The locket had a loop to thread through a chain or fasten to a watch fob. Will owned neither, but he would find some way to wear it near his heart. He would remember, and love, always.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  6 April 1812

  Badajoz, Spain

  Dan was dead and Will was in hell. Again and again the Light Division had stormed the same damned breach, only to be flung back by the French defenders on the city walls. Will had lost count of the number of times they had tried to fight their way in. But he would always remember Dan tumbling off the ramp of debris and bodies into the gory ditch, felled by a musket ball to his forehead. For a moment the world had stood still around Will but duty and instinct had taken over, so he had pushed forward and driven his men along until they were forced to retreat. Again.