Marrying the Royal Marine

by Carla Kelly

  Why? she asked herself. Knowing more about Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Junot would serve no useful purpose, beyond pointing her out as a flirt, something she knew she was not. ‘Bother it,’ she muttered softly.

  She had convinced herself that the best thing she could do for the remainder of this voyage was to follow her original plan and have as little to do with the Marine as possible. Once he was busy with whatever it was that had taken him on this voyage, she would be ignored, which suited her down to the ground. She had never sought the centre of the stage.

  Come to think of it, why was Colonel Junot on this voyage? Bother it, she told herself again. I would like to ask him.

  She knew better. Through Nana, she knew these men sailed with specific orders that were certainly none of her business, no matter how great her curiosity. ‘Bother it,’ she muttered again, and closed her eyes.

  She slept, thanks to the gentle swaying of the canvas seat, comforting after the peaks and troughs of last night’s squall. When she woke, her glasses rested in her lap. Lieutenant Colonel Junot stood next to her chair, his eyes scanning the water. She was struck all over again with his elegance. Compared to naval officers in their plain dark undress coats, the Marines were gaudy tropical birds. He had not an ounce of superfluous flesh, which made him different from the men she noticed in Bath, who were comfortably padded in the custom of the age.

  I am among the elite, she told herself, as she put on her spectacles, bending the wires around her ears again.

  Her small motions must have caught Colonel Junot’s eye because he looked her way and gave her a slight bow, then came closer.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘I am better today,’ she said simply. ‘Perhaps this means I will not have to seek Portuguese citizenship and remain on the Iberian Peninsula for ever.’

  He laughed and looked around for something to sit on, which gratified her further. He didn’t seem to mind her company. He found a keg and pulled that beside her chair.

  He looked at her a moment before he spoke, perhaps wondering if he should. He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you will think me a case-hardened meddler, Brandon, but I have to know—how on earth did you receive permission to travel into a war zone?’

  She was surprised that he was curious about her. She leaned towards him. ‘Haven’t you heard? I am to be a spy.’

  ‘I had no idea, Brandon. I will tell only my dozen closest friends.’

  It was her turn to smile and brush aside the crack-brained notion that the Colonel was flirting with her. Now it was his turn for disappointment, because she couldn’t think of a witty reply. Better have with the truth.

  ‘I don’t know how I got permission, Colonel,’ she told him. ‘I wrote to my sister, Laura Brittle, whose husband, Philemon, is chief surgeon at a satellite hospital in Oporto.’

  ‘I have heard of him. Who hasn’t? That little hospital in Oporto has saved many a seaman and Marine in just the brief time it has been in operation.’

  She blushed, this time with pleasure that he should speak so well of her brother-in-law. ‘I wrote to Laura and told her I wanted to be of use.’

  ‘I’ve also heard good things about Mrs Brittle.’

  ‘She’s incredible.’

  ‘Aye. And your other sister?’

  ‘Nana loves her husband and sends him back to sea without a tear…at least until he is out of sight,’ she said frankly. There wasn’t any point in being too coy around a man who, in the short space of twenty-four hours, knew her more intimately than any man alive.

  He wasn’t embarrassed by her comment. ‘Then he is a lucky man.’

  ‘He knows it, too.’

  She realised their heads were close together like conspirators, so she drew back slightly. ‘Colonel Junot, I thought I could help out in the hospital. Laura said they have many men who would like to have someone write letters for them, or read to them. I could never do what she does, but I could help.’ She shook her head, realising how puny her possible contribution must sound. ‘It isn’t much, but…’

  ‘…a letter means the world to someone wanting to communicate with his loved ones, Brandon. Don’t sell yourself short,’ he said, finishing her thought and adding his comment. ‘Still, I don’t understand how a surgeon and his wife could pull such strings. Are you all, by chance, related to King George himself?’

  ‘Oh, no! I have a theory,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you think. I’ll have to show you the letter from the Navy Board, addressed to Brandon Polly, which I received whilst I was visiting Nana. Do you think… Is it possible that Laura or Philemon transposed my name on purpose? Polly Brandon would never do, but Brandon Polly would cause not a stir.’

  He thought a minute. ‘What is more likely is at one point in the correspondence there may have been a comma between the two names. Orders or requests are often issued that way.’

  He looked at her, and seemed to know what she was thinking. ‘There now. You’ve answered my question, which surely must entitle you to one of your own. Go ahead and ask what everyone wants to know. How does someone who sounds like a Scot look like a Frenchman, and with a Froggy name, too?’

  ‘I am curious,’ she admitted.

  ‘Simple. A long-ago Philippe Junot—he had a title, so I’m told—came to Scotland from France as part of the entourage of Mary of Scotland. No one precisely knows how it happened, but he managed to avoid the turmoil surrounding her and blended into the foggy, damp woodwork of Scotland near Dundrennan. He lost his title, but acquired considerable land near Kirkcudbright.’

  ‘My goodness.’

  ‘My goodness, indeed. The Junots are a prolific breed, and each generation traditionally rejoices in a Philippe. My father is still well and hearty, but some day I will head the family.’

  ‘You chose to serve King and country?’ Polly asked, fascinated.

  ‘I did. Granted, Kirkcudbright is a pretty fishing village, but it is slow and I liked the uniform.’ He held up his hand. ‘Don’t laugh, Brandon. People have been known to join for stranger reasons.’

  ‘I cannot believe you!’ she protested.

  ‘Then don’t,’ he replied serenely. ‘I love the sea, but I require land now and then, and an enemy to grapple with up close. That’s my life.’

  ‘What…what does your wife say to all this?’ she asked. That is hardly subtle, she berated herself. He will think I am an idiot or a flirt, when I am neither.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, since I don’t have one of those luxuries. I ask you, Brandon—why would a sensible woman—someone like yourself—marry a Marine?’

  He had neatly lofted the ball of confusion back in her court. ‘I can’t imagine, either,’ she said without thinking, which made him laugh, then calmly bid her good day.

  I’ve offended him, Polly thought with remorse. She watched him go, then reasonably asked herself why his good opinion mattered.

  Captain Adney’s steward kindly brought her bread and cheese for lunch. She went below later, and found that her trunk and other baggage had been returned to her cabin. The sentry had moved from the Lieutenant Colonel’s door to her own, as though nothing had happened.

  When she went topside again, the Captain told her the afternoon would be spent in gunnery practice, and that she might be more comfortable belowdeck in her own cabin, one of the few not dismantled, so the guns could be fired. ‘It is your choice, but mind you, it’s noisy up here,’ he warned, then shrugged. ‘Or down there, for that matter.’

  She chose to remain on deck. The chair had been moved closer to the wheel—‘Out of any stray missile range,’ the captain told her.

  He didn’t exaggerate; the first blast nearly lifted her out of the chair. She covered her ears with her hands, wishing herself anywhere but at sea, until her own curiosity—Miss Pym called it an admirable trait, if not taken to extremes—piqued her interest. Cringing in the chair, trying to make herself small with each cannonade, she watched as each man performed his task.

  Someone ta
pped her shoulder. She looked around to see Colonel Junot holding out some cotton wadding and pointing to his ears. She took the wadding from him and stuffed it in her ears, observing that he seemed as usual, and not in any way offended by her earlier comment. Perhaps I make mountains out of molehills, she told herself, as he returned to the main deck, watching the crews there as she watched them from the quarterdeck.

  His eyes were on the Marines. Some of them served the guns alongside the naval gunners, and others lined the railing, muskets at the ready, their Sergeant standing behind them, walking up and down. A few Marines had ventured aloft to the crosstrees with their weapons. Through it all, Colonel Junot observed, and took occasional notes.

  It was all a far cry from Bath, and she knew how out of place she was. I wonder if I really can be useful in Oporto, she thought. Nana had wanted her to stay in Torquay. What had she done of any value on this voyage yet, except make a cake of herself with seasickness? She wondered why Colonel Junot thought her worth the time of day.

  It was still on her mind as she prepared for dinner that evening. Only three more days, she thought, as she reached around to button her last button.

  When she ventured into the wardroom, Colonel Junot came up behind her and without a word, buttoned the one in the centre of her back she never could reach. The other men were already busy at dinner; no one had noticed. I can’t even dress myself, she thought, flogging her already-battered esteem.

  Polly had little to say over dinner. For all she paid attention, she could have been shovelling clinkers into her mouth, and washing them down with bathwater. All she could think of was how ill equipped she was to leave England. Probably she should never have even left Bath, uncomfortable as Miss Pym had made her, especially after she had turned down Pym’s invitation to stay and teach the youngest class. At least at the Female Academy, she knew precisely where she stood, in the order of things.

  Bless his heart, Colonel Junot tried to engage her in conversation, but she murmured only monosyllables. Before the endless meal was over, even he had given up, directing his attention to war talk, and then ship talk. She was as out of place as a Quaker at a gaming table.

  Polly had never felt quite this gauche before, almost as though her spectacles were ten times too large for her face, with every freckle—real and imagined—standing out in high relief. And there sat the Lieutenant Colonel next to her, an officer with handsome features, distinguished hair going grey. He was quite the best-looking man she had ever seen, and what had he seen of her except someone who needed to be cleaned up, held over a basin, or buttoned up the back? She burned at her own failings, compared to Colonel Junot’s elegant worldliness, and longed to leave the table as soon as she could decently do so.

  The dinner ended after a round of toasts to the ship, the men, and the King. She was free to go. She stood, and all the men stood out of deference, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was the weakest link at the table.

  Polly was only two or three steps from her door, but there was the Colonel, bowing and offering his arm, as he suggested a turn around the deck. She didn’t know how to say no, or even why she wanted to, so she took his arm.

  The wind blew steadily from the west, making it the fair wind to Spain her brother-in-law Oliver had mentioned during his last visit to Torquay. Polly breathed deep, half-imagining she could smell the orange blossoms in Nana’s garden, while she wished herself there.

  Colonel Junot walked her around the deck, commenting on the workings of the ship, pointing out the phosphorescence in the water, which he didn’t understand, but which intrigued him. She could tell how much he loved the sea, and she felt her shyness begin to recede. He still seemed to be taking care of her, as though someone had given him that role when he first saw her on deck in Plymouth. She knew no one had, which made her feel protected. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to; probably none of Lord Ratliffe’s daughters was.

  ‘This voyage has been a real trial for you, Miss Brandon,’ he said finally.

  She wished he had continued calling her simply Brandon. He steadied her as they went down the more narrow companionway, and into the wardroom again, which this time was full of Marines.

  All twenty of the frigate’s small complement of Marines had assembled, each carrying a flask. Private Leonard had borrowed a medium-sized pot from the galley, which he set by her door. He saluted the Lieutenant Colonel and stepped forwards, eyes ahead.

  ‘Colonel Junot, if we may take the liberty…’

  ‘By all means, Private.’

  The Private looked at her then, flushed, and glanced away, addressing his remarks to someone imaginary over her shoulder. ‘Miss Brandon, there’s nothing pleasant about vinegar. We decided you should have an opportunity to wash your hair with fresh water. With the Lieutenant Colonel’s permission, we decided to give you our daily ration, and we will not take no for an answer.’

  He said it practically in one breath, then stepped back. As she watched, tears in her eyes, each Marine poured his drinking water for the day into the pot. When they finished, Colonel Junot went to his cabin and brought out his own flask, adding it to the water in the pot.

  ‘You’ll be thirsty,’ she protested feebly, when everyone finished and stood at attention.

  ‘Just for a day, ma’am,’ the Sergeant of the guard said. ‘We’ve been thirsty before.’

  He turned around smartly on his heel, and with a command, the Marines marched back to their posts, or to their quarters between the officers’ berths and the crew. Private Leonard remained at his post outside her door, eyes ahead again, every inch the professional.

  ‘Open your door, Brandon, and we’ll get the pot inside,’ Colonel Junot said.

  She did as he directed, standing back as Lieutenant Colonel and Private lifted in the pot, careful not to splash out a drop of the precious fresh water. She had never received a kinder gift from anyone in her life.

  The Private went back to his post, but Colonel Junot stood in her room, a smile playing around his expressive lips.

  ‘Colonel, I could have waited until we reached port. They didn’t need to do that,’ she said.

  ‘It was entirely their idea, Brandon,’ he replied, going to her door. ‘They only asked that I distract you on deck long enough for them to assemble. Look at it this way: if you ever decide to take over the world, you have a squad of Marines who would follow you anywhere.’

  ‘Why, Colonel?’ she asked.

  It was his turn to look nonplussed. He was silent a long moment, as if wondering what he should say to such a question. ‘Possibly just because you are Brandon Polly, or Polly Brandon. Sometimes there is no reason.’

  ‘No one ever did anything so nice for me before,’ she said, wincing inwardly because she didn’t want to sound pathetic. It was true, though.

  ‘No? Not even your sisters?’

  She could tell he was teasing her now, but there was still that air of protection about him, as though she had become his assignment for the voyage. ‘My sisters are different,’ she told him, feeling her face grow rosier. ‘They are supposed to be kind.’

  He laughed at that. ‘So is mine,’ he confided.

  She didn’t mean to look sceptical, but the Colonel seemed to be sensitive to her expression. ‘Here’s how I see it, Brandon—you’ve made a tedious voyage more than usually interesting.’

  She couldn’t imagine that tending a female through seasickness qualified as interesting, but she wasn’t about to mention it. She knew she should just curtsy and wish him goodnight. She would have, if some imp hadn’t leaped on to her shoulder, and prodded her. ‘I…I…most particularly like it when you call me Brandon,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Some of the other students at Miss Pym’s had nicknames. I never did.’ She stopped in confusion. ‘You must think I am an idiot.’

  ‘Never crossed my mind, Brandon.’

  She held her breath as he lightly touched her cheek.

  ‘Goodnight, now,’ he told her. ‘If you
need help with your hair tomorrow, I’m just across the wardroom.’

  Chapter Four

  Hugh couldn’t say he had any power to encourage the wind and waves, but he considered it a boon from kind providence that Polly Brandon did need his help in the morning to kneel at the pot and wash her hair, while the deck slanted. They decided that his firm knee in her back would anchor her to the pot, and she had no objection when he lathered her hair, and rinsed it using a small pitcher.

  The entire operation involved another pot and pitcher, which led him to comment that between pots and pitchers, women were a great lot of trouble. If she hadn’t looked back at him then with such a glower, her hair wet and soapy, he could have withstood nearly anything. He had no idea a woman could look so endearing with soap in her hair. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, of course, which meant she held her eyes open wider than usual, perhaps seeking more depth and more clarity. The effect jolted him a little, because her nearsighted gaze was so intense, her eyes so blue. The shade reminded him of a spot of deep water near Crete where he had gazed long and hard when he was a younger man.

  When not coated in vinegar, her auburn hair was glossy. Hugh was half-tempted to volunteer to comb the tangles from her hair, but he had the good sense to strangle that idea at birth. To his surprise, he was finding her uniquely attractive.

  Even after two decades of war, he knew enough about women, having bedded them in all seaports when occasion permitted, no different from his navy brethren. By common wardroom consent after one memorable voyage through half the world, he and his fellows agreed that the most beautiful women lived on the Greek isles. He knew at least that he had never seen a flat-chested female there. So it went; he was a man of experience.

  But here was Brandon—why on earth had he started calling her such a hooligan name?—who, even on her best day, could only stand in the shadow of the earth’s loveliest ladies. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her, and he had seen her at her absolute worst. No woman could have been more hopeless than Polly Brandon of two days ago, but here he was, wanting to devise all manner of subterfuges to keep her talking to him. It was a mystery; he had no clue what had happened in so short a time.