by Carla Kelly
He could be thankful he was aboard one of his Majesty’s typical warships, which did not believe in mirrors on the bulkheads. He had enough trouble frowning into his shaving mirror the next morning and seeing nothing but grey hair starting to attack his temples. As he stared in total dissatisfaction, a brave better angel of his nature did attempt to remind him of his own words to Brandon a day ago, when he so sagely advised her not to sell herself short. The angel shrugged and gave up when he chose not to admit he was doing exactly the same thing to himself.
‘I am too old,’ he told his reflection in the shaving mirror as he scraped at his chin, which only made him wince—not because the razor was dull, but because none of those obstacles loomed any higher than the molehills they were to him. All he could think of was his August 9, 1775 birth date in the family Bible back home.
When his face was scraped sufficiently free of whiskers, he sat naked on the cold cannon in his cabin, glumly willing himself to be as practical as he ordinarily was. He reminded himself he was on duty, in the service of his King, headed into the war, and destined to be busy. Another day or two would pass and he would never see Polly Brandon again. For his peace of mind, it couldn’t come too soon. Hugh did know one thing—what ailed him had a cure, and it was probably to continually remind himself that he was too old for the bewitching Polly Brandon.
Two days later, he could have made his resolve less problematic if he hadn’t been pacing on deck in the early hours, dissatisfied with himself. If he had a brain in his head, he would skulk somewhere on the ship when it docked in Oporto. Brandon would go ashore, and he would never see her again. He could go on to Lisbon.
That was his plan, anyway—a poor one, but serviceable enough. Trouble was, the view of Oporto took his breath away, and he was down the companionway in a matter of minutes, knocking on her door to tell her to step lively and come on deck for a look.
Why did you do that? he scolded himself, as he returned topside. His only hope was that she would look unappetising as she came on deck, maybe rubbing her eyes, or looking cross and out of sorts the way some women did, when yanked from slumber. If that was the case, he might have an easier time dismissing her. He could go about his business and forget this little wrinkle in his life’s plan, if he even had a plan.
No luck. She came on deck quickly, a shawl draped over her arm. He smiled to see that she still couldn’t quite reach that centre button in back. I won’t touch it, he thought. Her face was rosy from slumber, her eyes bright and expectant. She merely glanced at him, then cast her whole attention on the beautiful harbour that was Oporto. She had wound her long hair into a ridiculous topknot and skewered it with what looked like a pencil. She looked entirely makeshift, but instead of disgusting him, he wanted to plant a whacking great kiss on her forehead and see where it led. Lord, I am hopeless, he thought in disgust.
She was too excited to even say good morning, but tugged on his arm. ‘Where is the hospital?’ she demanded.
He pointed to the southern bank. ‘Over there, in that area called Vila Nova de Gaia. Turn round.’
She did as he demanded, and he buttoned up the centre button. ‘You need longer arms,’ he commented, but she was not paying attention to him.
‘I have never seen anything so magnificent,’ she said in awe. ‘Perhaps it was worth all that seasickness. Have you been here before?’
‘Years ago, Brandon. I think I was your age.’ He chuckled. ‘For what it’s worth, my reaction was much like yours.’ There, Miss Brandon, that should remind you what a geriatric I am, he thought grimly.
If she heard him, she didn’t seem to mind. Brandon watched as a cutter swooped from the southern shore to the side of the Perseverance and backed its sails, then watched as the flag Lieutenant ran up a series of pennants. ‘What’s he doing?’ she asked.
‘Giving the cutter a message. Our surgeon told me the hospital sends out this cutter at every approach of the fleet, to enquire of the wounded. Ask the flag Lieutenant what message he is sending.’
Surefooted now, Polly hurried to the Lieutenant. ‘He is signalling “Wounded man on board. Prompt attention.” He said the cutter will take the message to the hospital wharf and there will be a surgeon’s mate with a stretcher there when we dock,’ she told him in one breath as she hurried back to his side.
‘It appears that your brother-in-law doesn’t miss a trick,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m impressed.’
Polly nodded, her eyes on the shore again. ‘I asked the Lieutenant if he could also signal “Brandon on board”, and he said he would.’ She leaned against him for one brief moment, or maybe she just lost her footing. ‘I have not seen Laura in nearly two years.’
The winds were fair into Oporto. As the harbour came nearer, she hurried below to finish dressing. When she came back, she was as neat as a pin. He stood close to her when they approached the mouth of the mighty river, knowing there would be a series of pitches and yaws that might discomfort her, as the Douro met the Atlantic. Besides, it gave him plenty of excuse to grip her around the waist to prevent her losing her footing. He couldn’t deny he was touched by how completely she trusted him to hold her.
‘I may never get used to the sea,’ she confessed, as he braced her.
‘It isn’t given to everyone to relish going down to the sea in small boats, despite what the psalm says.’
‘No argument there,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘The less business I have in great waters, the better.’
It wouldn’t hurt to ask. ‘Of you three sisters, are you to be the only one who avoids the navy?’ What about Marines? he wanted to ask.
She wasn’t listening to him, but was back at the railing, intent on the shoreline, her mind and heart on her sister, he was certain. He tipped his hat to her and went belowdeck to find the letter Surgeon Brackett wanted him to deliver to Philemon Brittle. Better to just hand it to Brandon and let her do the honors. The voyage was over, after all.
He couldn’t bring himself to hand it to her, not there at the railing, or after the gangplank came down on the wharf, and certainly not when Polly had thrown herself into the arms of a tall, beautiful woman with auburn hair.
It was a brief embrace. The woman—she must be Laura Brittle—quickly turned her attention to the foretopman on the stretcher, as her husband planted a quick kiss on Polly’s cheek, shook hands with the Perseverance’s surgeon, and engaged him in conversation.
‘Are you planning to stay in Oporto, Colonel Junot?’ Captain Adney asked.
‘Perhaps,’ he temporised.
‘We’ll be at the navy wharf today and then sailing the day after, if winds and tide are willing.’
‘Very well, sir. I’ll sail with you.’ He couldn’t very well say anything else. He stood at the railing, uncertain, wanting to go down the gangplank and introduce himself, and suddenly shy. He looked at Polly for a clue, and she beckoned him.
That was easy. In another moment he was smiling inwardly at Polly’s shy introduction, and bowing to Mrs Philemon Brittle, who truly was as beautiful as her younger sister had declared. Philemon Brittle held out his hand and he gave it a shake, impressed with the strength of the surgeon’s grasp.
‘Do join us for luncheon, Colonel, unless you have urgent business that takes you elsewhere,’ Mrs Brittle said.
‘Since the King of Portugal is probably taking his ease on a beach in Brazil, and Boney is on his way to Russia, if reports are accurate, I am at a momentary loss for luncheon engagements,’ he joked, which made her smile and show off the dimple he recognised in Polly’s cheek, too.
‘Very well, sir. If Marshal Soult should show his brazen face here again, we’ll release you before the sorbet. Come, Polly. Colonel?’
He walked up the hill from the wharf with a sister on either side of him. He looked from one to the other, which made Polly stop.
‘Laura, this is droll! Colonel Junot is comparing us!’
So much for my peace of mind, Hugh thought, surprisingly unembarrassed, since he had made an
obvious discovery that was probably clear to everyone except Polly herself. ‘You have me, Brandon. Anyone with two eyes can see that you and Mrs Brittle are sisters.’
‘I have told her that many times,’ Mrs Brittle said. ‘Perhaps she will choose to believe me some day. Thank you, Colonel Junot!’ She paused then, and her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Brandon? Apparently you have either chosen a nickname for Polly, or you are on to our own effort to get my sister to Portugal.’
‘You were right, Colonel!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Laura, I don’t know why he calls me that, but we did wonder if perhaps some correspondence came from Portugal requesting a Brandon Polly for service.’
‘It was the feeblest attempt,’ Mrs Brittle said as they resumed walking again. ‘Philemon hoped some overworked clerk at the Navy Board would apparently do what he did. Perhaps I shall call you Brandon, too, my love. Welcome to hard service in the navy.’
If Polly had a rejoinder ready, it went unnoticed when an orderly at the top of the hill called for Mrs Brittle. Alert, Laura put her finger to her lips and listened.
‘Ward C, mum! Lively now!’
Without a word of explanation, Mrs Brittle hiked up her skirts to reveal shapely legs and ran up the hill, forgetting her company completely, it seemed. She stopped halfway up and looked back, but Hugh just waved her on. He took Polly’s arm, content to walk the rest of the way with her.
‘I gather all the rumours are true, Brandon. Wouldn’t it be nice some day if your gifted sister could be recognised for what she is doing here?’
‘I doubt it would concern her,’ Polly replied, and he could hear the pride in her voice. ‘She would probably just laugh, and say the war is harder on wives like Nana, who wait. It must be so hard to be apart from one’s love.’
Maybe I am about to find out, Hugh thought to himself. Or maybe I am just an idiot.
They arrived at the convent and were greeted immediately by a nun, who directed them to the dining room. The table was already set; from the looks of things, the Brittles had left their meal when the Perseverance docked. Hugh pulled out a chair for Polly, taking a deep breath of her sun-warmed hair as he did so, remembering how he had helped her wash it.
They were just beginning what looked like empanadas when Mrs Brittle came into the room, hand in hand with a youngster whose hair was the same shade as his mother and aunt’s. She knelt gracefully and kissed his cheek. ‘Danny, that’s your aunt Polly Brandon.’ She repeated it in Portuguese. ‘His Portuguese is better than mine,’ Mrs Brittle explained.
‘Laura, he looks like you,’ Polly said.
‘The hair, anyway,’ Laura said as she sat him down on a chair with a medical book as a booster. ‘He has his father’s eyes and general capable demeanour.’
‘Does he run with the herd?’ Hugh asked, gesturing towards the courtyard, which he saw through the open door. Other children about Danny’s age played there.
‘Indeed, he does, which frees me for hospital work,’ Laura said.
Polly looked where he looked. ‘Goodness, are you running an orphanage, too?’
‘No, my love,’ Mrs Brittle said. She hesitated, glancing at Hugh, and he understood immediately whose children they were, considering Oporto’s sad history with the French invaders.
She reached across her corner of the table and touched Polly’s hand. ‘When the French came here in ’08, they brutalised the young women they did not murder. These children are one result of that misery.’
‘Oh,’ Polly said, her voice small. ‘Where are their mothers?’
Hugh watched Polly’s expressive face. You are so young, so naïve, he thought. Let us hope this is the worst face of war you see.
‘Oporto is a sad town, my love,’ Mrs Brittle said. She cupped her hand gently against her son’s cheek as he ate his empanada. ‘We have tried to make life as good as we can for these unfortunates.’ She looked at Polly. ‘Dearest, this is why we want you here.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Polly said. ‘I thought I was to help in the wards.’
‘We want you to teach English to the young mothers—some are here—and to the nuns. I haven’t time, and they would be so much more useful here. Perhaps, in time, they will find work with the English port merchants, when they return from Lisbon and London.’
‘I can teach them,’ Polly said. Her eyes on the children, she rose and went to the door, where she could see the children playing. ‘Seems a strange way to fight Boney.’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Brittle said. She held a cup to Danny’s lips and he drank in large gulps. ‘Slow down, little one. You’ll be back there soon enough.’ She looked apologetically at Hugh. ‘Colonel, you will find us a strange household. My husband sends his regrets, but ward walking always trumps food. Perhaps he’ll wander through tonight for our evening meal, which I trust you will share with us.’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘With pleasure.’
‘In fact, Colonel Junot, you may stay the night here, unless you prefer a smelly frigate.’
‘I can do that, too,’ he replied, glad for the invitation.
He looked at Polly, but her eyes were on the courtyard. As he watched her, she rose quietly and held out her hand to her nephew, who took it without hesitation and led her from the room in such a forthright manner that he smiled.
‘Now there’s a lad who has things under control.’
‘I told you he was like his father,’ Mrs Brittle said, her voice soft with love as she watched her sister and son.
He thought he should make his excuses and leave then. This was a busy woman. He made to rise, but she raised her hand to stop him, then poured him another glass of port. ‘As onerous as work is here, we cannot fault the wine, Colonel.’
He drank, pleased to agree with her. His eyes went again to Polly, who was sitting on the grass now, with children around her. He watched as two women about her age came closer, hesitated, and moved closer. ‘She’s a bit of a magnet,’ he murmured, more to himself than Mrs Brittle. ‘I noticed that on the ship, too.’ He chuckled, then stopped, because Mrs Brittle was giving him that thoughtful stare again.
‘I think there were two Lieutenants who would have followed her to the ends of the earth,’ he continued, speaking too fast. Maybe one Lieutenant Colonel, he thought, glad Mrs Brittle could not read his mind.
‘She would only stare at you if you suggested such a thing.’
‘I know, Mrs Brittle. She seems to think she is a duckling among swans.’
Mrs Brittle poured herself another glass. ‘Thank you for being such a gallant escort, Colonel. I was hoping there would be someone mature like you on board, to shepherd her safely.’
Ouch, he thought, mentally counting every grey hair at his temples. ‘You can always count on the Marines, Mrs Brittle.’
Lord, but that sounded feeble, he scolded himself as he said goodbye to Mrs Brittle and walked back to the dock down the well-travelled path, where he planned to retrieve a small duffel of his own and arrange for Polly’s luggage to be sent up the hill. The Sergeant of Marines had released his men to shore, where he drilled them. Hugh watched in appreciation and some pride at their neat rank and file. ‘We are so few in this war,’ he murmured, and thought of Lieutenant Graves breathing his last in his arms. ‘I have work to do.’
From the startled look on Laura’s face, Polly knew she should have disguised her disappointment that Colonel Junot had left the hospital. ‘I…I only wish he had said goodbye, but I suppose duty called,’ she said. And, oh, can I change a subject, she thought. ‘Laura, the young women are so shy. I declare they are like deer.’
Laura removed the medical book from Danny’s chair and patted it. Polly sat down. ‘You must treat them so gently. They have been through a terrible experience at the hands of the French.’ She sighed. ‘It is one I can appreciate more than most, perhaps. They were wretchedly ill used, and feel the world’s censure.’
‘You…you said some of the women returned to their villages and left their babies here?’
‘They did, and I call it no foul. Everyone deals differently with violation of such a magnitude. I can assure you the mothers who remained love their little ones, who are surely not to blame for their entry into the world.’ She took Polly’s hand in hers. ‘My dear, you and I know the inside of an orphanage. Only Nana had a home in her early years.’ She looked Polly in the eye. ‘Is it wrong of me to have thrust you into this?’
Polly shook her head. ‘No, a thousand times, Laura. I trust this is one foundling home where the little ones are touched and loved.’
‘You know it is,’ her sister said firmly, then looked down as her cheeks flamed. ‘Other than Nana’s embrace when we met in Torquay, my beloved Philemon was the first person who ever hugged me, and I was twenty-seven.’
Polly moved her chair closer and they sat hand in hand until an orderly ran down the hall, calling for Mrs Brittle.
‘Duty calls,’ Laura said, but Polly heard no regret in her voice.
She stood up, but Polly did not release her hand. ‘Tell me you don’t mind all this hard work, sister,’ she said, tugging on her hand, ‘or the fact that you receive no recognition for it.’
Laura let go of Polly’s hand gently. ‘I only have to look into the eyes of the men I save, or into my husband’s eyes, to receive all the reward I need, this side of heaven, my love. You’ll understand some day.’
‘That’s what Nana says, too,’ Polly grumbled. ‘Some day. Some day.’
Laura laughed. ‘Don’t be so impatient to grow up! Go back to the courtyard and make some more friends.’ She kissed the top of Polly’s head. ‘And if Danny gets stubborn and won’t share, encourage him to do so. Mama says.’
She spent a pleasant afternoon in the courtyard, trying to imagine what Oporto must have been like when the French controlled it and the Portuguese suffered so greatly. She counted ten little ones, all about two years of age, like her nephew. Two of them decided to nap on cots in the shade of a mimosa tree, and three young women watched over them all.
