by Carla Kelly
One of the women, Paola, could speak some English, but Polly found herself mostly smiling and wishing she knew more of the language. She did learn a handclapping game in Portuguese, where even Danny corrected her pronunciation. She decided the whole afternoon was a lesson in humility for Miss Pym’s star pupil and spent her time more profitably, sitting cross-legged in the grass and folding bits of paper into hopping frogs, a skill she had learned from Nana.
The whole time, Paola sat close to her in the grass, with several children in her lap. ‘I am determined to learn Portuguese,’ Polly told her, and smiled back when the young girl smiled at her.
The smile left Paola’s face when she heard footsteps and looked over her shoulder. Polly watched her freeze and seem to shrink inside her own skin.
She looked around, wondering what could be the trouble. Colonel Junot stood in the open doorway to the courtyard, watching them, a smile on his face. Polly carefully put her arm around Paola, who had moved her legs to the side as though she wanted to leap to her feet. ‘No, no,’ Polly whispered. ‘He is a friend. Amigo?’
Paola froze where she was, scarcely breathing. Imagine that much fear, Polly thought. She tightened her grip on the young girl. ‘Colonel Junot, if you don’t mind, you’re frightening this girl,’ she said softly.
He stared at her in disbelief at first, and then he sighed and turned away. She heard his footsteps recede down the corridor. Please don’t leave before you say goodbye, she thought in sudden anguish.
Chapter Six
To Polly’s infinite relief, Colonel Junot joined them for dinner. ‘I was afraid you had come to the courtyard to say goodbye to me,’ she told him.
‘Oh, no, Brandon,’ he assured her. ‘Your sister kindly invited me to eat here and then stay the night. I have been quartered in a chaste cell formerly inhabited by someone—perhaps her name was Sister Quite Prudent—who obviously had God’s ear. It can only do me good.’
I’m going to miss your wit, she thought suddenly. What a short acquaintance this has been.
Dinner was sheer delight, with young Daniel Brittle sitting on the medical books again, and Philemon actually free to join them. ‘What do you think of our society?’
‘I like it, Surgeon Brittle,’ Hugh said. ‘You run a shipshape operation with good results.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m afraid I frightened one of the young women in the courtyard this afternoon. I suppose one uniform is pretty much the same as another to them.’
‘Alas, yes,’ Laura chimed in. ‘No one wears a uniform here, and our Marine sentries don’t go in the courtyard.’
While the Brittles listened, Hugh explained his purpose in coming to Portugal. ‘Surgeon Brittle, I would consider it a special favour if you or your excellent wife would show me around the hospital tomorrow. I’d like to reassure myself that your protection is adequate.’
‘We can do that.’ Philemon leaned back in his chair and glanced at Laura. ‘Danny appears to be drooping, Laura. Colonel Junot and I can entertain ourselves with Oporto’s major export, if you and Polly want to see him to bed.’
The little boy went with no protest, happy enough for his mother to tuck him in bed, sing a lullaby in Portuguese, and watch until he slept, his arm around a doll made of surgical towels.
‘You look a little weary yourself, sister,’ Laura said. ‘I can’t think of a lullaby for your age, but you can tell me about the voyage, and how our sister does.’
Polly decided bliss was a flannel nightgown, two pillows behind her head, and sharing family stories with her sister, a luxury of such magnitude she never could have imagined it only three years ago. She described Rachel at three, and Nana’s quiet competence, as counterpoint to the tremendous strain she lived under, and the next expectation, due in September.
Laura listened, adding her own commentary. During a lull, she cleared her throat, then sat up a little higher in the bed. ‘Polly, I don’t want to pry… Oh, yes, I do! It seems to me that Colonel Junot—heavens, he sounds more Scottish than Macbeth—is your champion.’
Polly stared at her, eyes wide. ‘Champion?’ she repeated. ‘I can’t imagine.’
Laura levelled her with a glance, probably one she practised on Danny. ‘Confess,’ she said.
There obviously wasn’t any point in trying to keep the events of the voyage a secret. ‘Several centuries back, his ancestors came to Scotland from France with Mary of Scotland. That’s why he is “Junnit” now, and—’ Polly stopped, and looked at Laura for reassurance. ‘As for champion—sister, I don’t think I would have survived the voyage without him.’
As Laura listened, only interjecting a faint ‘Oh, my’, or ‘Gracious’, as the tale became more fraught, Polly described the whole voyage, leaving nothing out. ‘When…when I was feeling better, I honestly tried to avoid him, so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of the embarrassing circumstances I had placed him under, but he was just so matter of fact! You would have thought he had done nothing more than…than pull a splinter out of my finger. I tried to be mortified, but he never let me.’
Even Laura, who had probably seen everything by now, stared at her. ‘Polly, Colonel Junot may be as rare a man as I have ever heard of! We all owe him a debt.’ She thought a moment, choosing her words like ripe strawberries in a summer market. ‘That is all you owe him, though.’
Polly watched her sister, unable to overlook the worry in her eyes. She decided to put her at ease. ‘Sister, he is much too grand and important to pay me any attention, beyond that which I have described to you.’
She did not expect to feel any pain at that bald announcement, but she did. ‘He’s a man of some distinction, Laura. Men like that don’t…’ She couldn’t say it. ‘Well, they don’t.’
‘You don’t think he’s too old for you?’
Surprised, Polly sat up. ‘I…I never thought of him that way.’ She swallowed, suddenly wanting this conversation to end, because she felt unwanted tears teasing her eyelids. ‘Age never entered in. Heavens, sister, he is a Colonel of Marines! I doubt he will even remember my name next week.’
‘Are you so certain?’ Laura asked. Suddenly the air hung heavy between them.
It was as if they both decided to change the subject at the same time, and spoke next of inconsequentials. Gradually Laura said less and less. Soon her head drooped on Polly’s shoulder and she slept. Polly made herself comfortable, knowing that Philemon would eventually come in search of his wife. Finally, she heard Colonel Junot’s firm footsteps receding down the long corridor. Philemon knocked softly on the door, then opened it.
Polly put a finger to her lips, and he smiled to see his wife asleep. Walking quietly to the bed, he picked her up, winked at Polly, and mouthed ‘goodnight’. He looked down at his sleeping wife, then at Polly. ‘You’re just what this doctor ordered,’ he whispered, then grinned. ‘And you brought along your own Marine for protection.’
‘He’s not my Marine,’ she whispered back. Philemon left the room as quietly as he had entered it. Polly frowned at the ceiling. ‘What is wrong with my relatives?’ she asked out loud.
Hugh’s peers back in Plymouth would never believe him if he told them he spent the night in a nun’s bed. He woke early, as usual, but felt disinclined to move. Miracle of miracles he hadn’t roused earlier, considering the amount of port he had drunk last night, which also accounted for the slight buzz in his brain.
Part of the pleasure Hugh felt was his convivial evening with Philemon Brittle, a remarkable man, if ever there was one. He had handed over the letter from their mutual friend, Owen Brackett, which Brittle read right then, after apologies to his guest.
In the manner of men engaged in years of warfare, they had spent the next half-hour refighting naval battles, discovered they had both served at the Battle of the Nile and Trafalgar, and had decided—Brittle, anyway—each was deserving of confidences.
‘Polly’s a sight for Laura’s sore eyes,’ Brittle had said, as they finished one bottle and popped the cork on another. �
��She works so hard, and misses her sisters so much.’ He poured another measure. ‘I hope it is not a felony to bamboozle the Navy Board, but we thought it worth a try to get Brandon Polly here.’
‘I’ve been calling her Brandon,’ Hugh confessed. ‘I suppose that is rag manners, but it was one way to take her mind off as wicked a case of the pukes as I have ever seen.’ He laughed. ‘She told me she was determined to take up residence in Portugal and never attempt the ocean again.’
They had sailed into more prosaic conversational waters then, concluding only when the surgeon stoppered the bottle of port, telling Hugh it was time he went in search of his wife.
He had found her in Polly’s room. Hugh had continued down the hall, but stood in the shadows and watched as, a few moments later, Brittle came out carrying his sleeping wife. He knew he was a voyeur, but Hugh had not looked away when she woke and her arms went around Brittle’s neck and she kissed him.
Well, Surgeon Brittle, I shall have to report to Owen Brackett that you are enjoying a better war than most, Hugh had thought, as he went into his virginal cell and closed the door quietly. His dreams had been livelier than usual that night.
Preparing for the day was no more bare bones than usual. His only misgiving came as he dressed, wearing the black-and-white checked shirt that Polly seemed to have taken a shine to. He tucked the long tails into his navy blue trousers, and stood there a long minute, holding the gorget he had worn around his neck for years. Habit prevailed. He hooked it around his neck, but tucked it inside his shirt because he was out of uniform. Feeling decidedly naked without his uniform coat, he settled for a nondescript waistcoat he usually kept in his duffle as an antidote to cold mornings. I must look like a brigand, he thought, then reminded himself that vanity in a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines was out of place.
He retraced his steps to the dining room, hoping to see Polly Brandon. He was disappointed; Laura Brittle sat alone at the table, sipping tea. He hesitated to enter, but she had heard his footsteps.
‘Do join me, Colonel Junot,’ she called. When he came in the room, she indicated the food on the sideboard. ‘Philemon is already ward walking, Danny is in the courtyard, with my sister.’
Porridge, cream, and yesterday’s empanadas seemed to be the menu. He filled his plate and joined her as she poured him tea. He wasn’t inclined to converse much over meals—maybe this was a consequence of the urgent nature of his wartime life—and she seemed to sense that. When he finished, he sat back. Something slightly militant in her eyes told him she did not suffer fools gladly, or, apparently, Colonels.
‘Colonel, as much as you would probably rather not mention it, I must thank you for your unparalleled kindness to my sister on the voyage. She told me how you helped her.’
‘It truly was nothing,’ he assured her. That is safe enough, he thought, daring to relax. ‘I only feel sorry it was necessary for a young lady to have to pawn her dignity so completely.’ He laughed softly. ‘She ain’t much of a sailor, but she is a trooper.’
They laughed together. He watched Mrs Brittle’s expressive face, seeing so much of Polly in her that it surprised him. Physically they were different—Laura tall and slim, and Polly shorter and probably destined to a life of decisions between one cream bun or two—but he could not overlook the matching dimples and lovely hair.
Then it came; he could see it in her eyes and the way she set her lips in a firm line. He braced himself.
‘What do you know of us sisters?’ she asked.
He shrugged, not sure of himself, but too stubborn to roll over and play dead. ‘I have heard things,’ he said simply. ‘In fact, she told me about her father.’
He had startled her, but she recovered quickly. ‘It’s true. We have all decided never to gild a lily, Colonel. Still, I have to wonder why she said so much.’
Hugh said nothing, unwilling to pave her way. He poured himself more tea, then gave Mrs Brittle his full attention. He wondered for only a short moment what her game was, because he realised how transparent he must be to an observant woman who was a great protector of her sisters. ‘Say on, madam,’ he murmured, bracing himself.
‘Nana was able to get away to safety in Plymouth with her grandmother. I had no one’s support, so my first marriage lined our father’s pockets and fair ruined me. Polly was never a victim because our father never could see past her spectacles. For that, Nana and I are profoundly grateful. Polly sees it differently, I think.’
Chastened, Hugh allowed his gaze to wander. I was one of those shallow ones, at first, but you’ll never hear that from me, he thought.
What she was telling him became clear. He knew superior intellect had no role in his sudden wisdom because he knew himself well enough. ‘Which is worse, Mrs Brittle—to be in peril because of beauty, or ignored because of perceived lack of it?’
‘Touché, Colonel,’ she said, impressed. ‘Polly feels like a wren among birds of paradise, although nothing could be further from the truth. But you have noticed.’
He looked at her, his heart sinking because he knew she had taken his measure, no matter how well he had thought to hide it. ‘You have me, Mrs Brittle. I’ll admit that I have become an admirer of your sister. It only took a short voyage.’
‘I thought as much,’ she replied, her tone in no way calculated to embarrass. ‘I have to ask—are you even aware that you have a proprietary air around her?’
It was his turn for surprise. ‘No!’
‘You do,’ she said, giving considerable weight to two words.
He thought a long moment before he spoke, knowing that what he said would end any further connection. ‘I’m certain she has no notion of my regard, beyond any consideration of a gentleman towards a female travelling alone. I helped her. That was enough, as far as she is concerned. How could I possibly mean anything to her on such short notice, and in such a circumstance?’
‘I trust you are right,’ Laura said.
He could hear the finality in her voice. ‘I am right, madam. I…I have no plans to pursue the matter, so rest assured.’ He made himself smile. ‘Nothing like a good war to put the screws on an actual life, eh?’
He should never have said that, because it broke his heart, even as he knew he had ample cause to dislike Laura Brittle.
Not willing just then to stay another moment in Mrs Brittle’s company, he stood up. ‘Enough said,’ he told her, with what he thought was an admirable bit of forbearance. ‘I’ll only be here the rest of the day, then off to Lisbon on tomorrow’s tide.’
It pleased him a little to see her suddenly unsure, as though she regretted her interference in Polly Brandon’s life. Maybe she could tolerate his plain speaking, since she was so eager to dish out her own. He took a deep breath. ‘You and Mrs Worthy still see Brandon as a child, don’t you?’
‘She is,’ was Laura Brittle’s firm reply.
‘Take another look,’ he said quietly, then bowed and left the room.
Philemon had told Hugh last night where the principal ward was located. He reminded himself that his sole purpose in Oporto was to further his interviews with the Marines serving in small detachments. He would have got off scot-free if he hadn’t glanced into the courtyard as he strode so purposefully away, ready to chew nails.
He slowed down; he stopped, making sure he was in the shadow of a colonnade. There she sat on the grass, cross-legged but decorous—Brandon Polly on the Navy Boards rolls, and Brandon for ever in his heart. He knew it now; Laura Brittle had succeeded in convincing him of the matter, even as she pulled the rug out from under him.
Brandon was dressed in something light and her hair was again atop her head in that silly way she had of twisting it there with a pencil or skewer. She had already attracted her nephew to one leg, and a darker-skinned youngster of roughly the same age—some Frenchman’s memento—was ready to plop himself down on the other. Her arms were full and her face so pretty in that way of women with children.
How bitter this was. Polly Brandon
was precisely the woman he wanted to mother his own children, children destined never to be born because the timing was off, and Napoleon, that bastard, insisted on hogging everyone’s attention and effort. Brandon, you are the wife I will never have, he thought. At least there is no crime in remembering you.
He moved quietly from the shadow and continued his way down the corridor to the convent’s chapel, which had been appropriated as the major ward. Philemon had told him that since the French has desecrated it, the Catholic hierarchy in Portugal had been willing enough, and marvellously patriotic, to turn over the use of major portions of the convent to the Royal Navy as a satellite hospital.
He walked into the ward, looking for Philemon Brittle, and found him in a former lady chapel, seated at a desk, poring over a sheaf of papers.
Brittle smiled to see him and indicated a chair. ‘Feel free to talk to my Marine guards,’ he said. ‘I have them posted in here, as you can see, and by my apothecary, and at each entrance.’
It seemed so few to Hugh. ‘Do you feel secure enough which such a small detail?’
The surgeon shrugged. ‘I confess I do not think about the matter over much. We’re close to the navy wharf for safety—you were there yesterday—and this side of the Douro River is under control. We never cross the river to Oporto proper without an escort, though, mainly because none of your Marines has any faith in the British army’s ability to keep the Frogs away.’
They both laughed, as only a navy surgeon and a Marine could who were well acquainted with service jealousies. ‘I suppose we’re a pack of fools, Colonel,’ Philemon admitted. ‘There’s been no indication of French in the vicinity, but it’s lively enough this summer, with Beau Wellesley on the prowl east of us, and Soult and Marmont playing their cat-and-mouse games.’
‘And here all is peaceful.’
