by Carla Kelly
Polly took her time opening the letter, savouring every second. As she opened it, she wondered if Laura knew she had received a letter from Colonel Junot. Maybe in the press of yesterday’s activity, someone else had put the message on her bed.
She took a deep breath and began to read. Greetings, Brandon, from someone with rag manners, she read. I suppose I deserve a slap across the face for being so bold as to write to you… She read the letter, full of news of Lisbon and his work there, ran her finger slowly across his name, caressing it, and read it again. I have been on your mind, she thought, so pleased that she hugged herself, then laughed out loud.
It was out of the question that she should be so presumptuous as to answer his letter, and she knew it. She glanced at the letter again, wishing she dared to write back.
If only. The letter contained nothing lover-like or anything that she couldn’t show to Laura or Philemon. So she would have thought, if she hadn’t turned over the final sheet and seen the postscript. ‘Damn me, if I don’t miss you, Brandon.’
A pleasant warmth descended on her then. The sole human being on earth who had seen her at her noxious worst missed her. She gently ran her finger across the words. He missed her.
She hid the letter next to the intemperate one she had written to him and never sent. Laura never questioned her about the letter, so Polly knew she had neither seen nor delivered it. Polly gave herself a mental shake and went back to work.
Chapter Nine
Hugh knew Polly Brandon would never answer his letter, if she even received it. He felt a little foolish as he listened every day for the drum rolls in the Marine barracks indicating mail call. He was a Lieutenant Colonel; any correspondence intended for him would have been taken to him. Still, he listened for the drum roll.
He had made the mistake of accepting Major Buttram’s invitation to the brothel and spent an hour with a languid lass who otherwise would have pleased him greatly, if he hadn’t been thinking of Polly. Too soon he found himself wishing that it was Polly’s heels digging into his kidneys as he rode her, and Polly’s breath warming his cheek, and Polly’s head turning from side to side as he satisfied her, or at least, when she pretended so. Something told him Polly would never pretend, not if he was at the helm.
July turned into August and then early September, as he took one short hop to the Mediterranean on a sloop of war and visited the Marines on Malta, always a charming city to visit. He tried to drink himself silly one night, but that was an even greater failure than the prostitute in Lisbon. He had no real liking for any spirits other than grog, which had always been a source of amusement to his brother officers, who generally assumed he was, at the very least, a Madeira man. All he had to show for an evening in his cups was a head as big as all outdoors and Brandon’s inability to maintain stuff in the gut where it belonged.
If women and liquor couldn’t assuage him, he had more success writing his report back in Lisbon, busying himself with facts and figures. That lasted about three days, until he found himself staring at the wall and seeing Polly Brandon in the stucco. ‘All right, lassie,’ he said one afternoon to his wall, ‘did ye or did ye not even receive my letter? If ye did, congratulations on having superior manners and not responding. If ye didna, well then, I’m nowhere different than I was when I started speculating. Lord, what a chowderhead. Listen to your sister and stay away from Marines.’
And that was that. Or it would have been, if he hadn’t decided to take the next frigate north to Ferrol Station for a look around. His only interesting official correspondence had come encrypted from Plymouth. When the translated message reached his desk, he read of Admiral Sir Home Popham’s campaign into the Bay of Biscay, with Santander as the hard-won prize. ‘Major Buttram, I want to watch our Johnnies in action,’ he said the next morning as he packed. ‘Is something heading north at least to Ferrol Station?’
Something was—a sloop of war captained by a young Lieutenant. Considering all of his years rubbing shoulders with the navy, Hugh should have known they could not slide by Oporto without stopping, considering the drinking habits of the Royal Navy’s officers. The sloop’s skipper had a heavy purse from thirsty men who wanted to turn gold into port, alchemy common in the navy.
‘We’ll be here a day at least, I fear, sir,’ the Lieutenant said. ‘I’ve promised port to ever so many ships. Um, if you’re bored, I hear there are excellent cafés in Oporto, and the women are the…um…easiest in Portugal,’ he concluded in a rush, his face red.
The women are not easy in Oporto, Hugh thought sourly. ‘I’ll remain on board,’ he said, and turned on his heel.
By early September, Polly had made four trips upriver with Sister Maria Madelena. Typically, they left before sunrise, to ensure a quick return that day. There were no more lighters descending the Douro, bearing wounded, because the season of campaigning was winding down. Dispatches had reached Oporto that Beau Wellesley and his army had marched in triumph to Madrid, and that several French armies in the region were in motion, as well, some moving towards the capital city and others scattering. No one knew what to believe.
‘And still there are those who need our help,’ Sister Maria Madelena said, as they came in sight of São Jobim.
Polly knew the routine now. She hurried ashore and followed the sentries into the church, where the heavy door swung shut and was barred. There were two girls this time, one with a baby. Both of them, Spanish sisters, shrank from the sight of the Marines, even though Sister Maria Madelena said ‘Ingleses’ over and over.
Polly wished she felt less uneasy about this run. Lately, she had been watching Sister Maria Madelena and the priest more closely. They almost always stepped aside where no one could hear, to talk in low whispers, and sometimes exchange notes. They seemed to be arguing this time. The priest shook his head and there was no note.
‘We would be a happier country without any soldiers,’ Sister Maria said as they prepared to leave.
Polly wondered if she should speak. What could it hurt? she thought at last, and cleared her throat.
‘Sister, did you feel that someone was watching us this time?’ Said out loud, it sounded foolish; she regretted her words at once. Sister Maria Madelena would think her a coward. She never asked about the notes; the one time she had, the nun had ignored her.
‘What’s this?’ the nun asked gently. ‘Did you feel a prickling of your neck hairs? Fingers along your spine?’
‘I am being foolish, I know,’ she apologised.
‘No, you’re not. I felt it, too. I look around, then I remind myself that we are on God’s errand.’ She shrugged. ‘The feeling always passes.’
Maybe for you, Polly thought.
Despite her misgivings, which Polly knew better than to voice again, the trip downriver was as calm as the other ones. She cautiously complimented herself on keeping down that morning’s meal, and almost enjoyed the race down to the sea, propelled by a splendid current as the Douro rushed out of the mountains and gradually changed character into a dignified, formidable river that widened with each mile closer to the Atlantic.
They reached Vila Nova as the sun was low in the sky. The slower swells of the turning tide made the bobbing of the small vessel an instrument of torture to her sorely tried equilibrium.
Small, but bristling with guns, a sloop of war was tied to the dock. She glanced at it, then stared, because Colonel Junot stood there, gazing towards the convent. It cannot be, she thought first, mainly because she did not want him to see her looking so green under her unladylike tan, and getting ready to lean over the side of the barco. Then, Perhaps he will not notice me, she told herself, as she vomited into the river.
If the Spanish girl’s baby had not started to cry, maybe he would not have looked around in surprise. When he saw her, he flashed as broad a smile as she had ever seen.
He doffed his hat to her, and bowed.
‘I am mortified,’ Polly whispered to Sister Maria. ‘He probably thinks I get seasick in my bathtub.�
��
‘That is Colonel…how do you say…Junnit? He is the one who…’
Polly nodded. ‘I did not really think I would see him again. Perhaps he will not come on shore.’
She couldn’t look, but Sister Maria Madelena had no qualms about the matter. ‘He appears to be heading to the gangplank, Polly,’ she whispered back.
Faster than she would have credited, he was standing beside the barco, ready to give her a hand. He helped her over the gunwale and on to the dock, beamed at her, then held out his hand to the young woman with the baby, who hesitated.
‘Almira, he is my friend,’ Polly murmured in her sketchy Spanish, which changed the girl’s worry to relief. Shyly, she handed her baby up to Polly, then took Colonel Junot’s hand and let him help her on to the dock.
Suddenly too shy to say anything, Polly stood there with the baby. The Colonel was not smiling now, which caused her to look at him more closely, and then quickly hand the baby over to his mother.
‘Colonel?’ Something had happened, and she hadn’t the slightest idea what it was.
‘What were you doing upriver?’ he asked, his tone chilly.
She felt like a child under his question. ‘We…we retrieve young women from the interior of Portugal who have been…’ She hesitated.
‘…raped by the French,’ he concluded bluntly, as she felt her face flame. He took her arm, a grasp more urgent than angry. ‘Brandon, what harsh duty is yours at this convent?’
He took her to a bench and sat her down, then sat down beside her. He seemed to know he was taxing her; she watched him take a deep breath and visibly calm himself. He did not release her arm, but his grip loosened.
She almost wished now she had sent the letter in the bottom of her trunk. It would be easier than explaining to a man what she did. She took a breath of her own. ‘Oh, Colonel, it is harsh, but not for me. The pouco mães wake up at night with terrible dreams. I go from room to room, trying to comfort them.’
His frown only deepened. ‘That is not a job for one so young. Is there no one else who can do it?’
She winced, because he had touched a vulnerable place, one that had begun to trouble Laura. ‘Colonel, they respond to me, and I certainly have their trust. I sleep in the mornings, and by afternoon, teach a little English here and there, although I must admit I seem to be learning more Portuguese. Some Spanish, too.’
She said that to hopefully make him smile a little, but he did not. What he said surprised her.
He released her arm then and sighed, leaning back against the railing of the wharf, something she doubted he did very often, considering his military bearing. ‘Don’t go upriver again, Brandon,’ he said finally.
‘It’s safe, Colonel,’ she reminded him. ‘Everyone says so.’
‘Nothing is safe in the Peninsula,’ he replied, and she could not overlook the concern in his voice. ‘Armies are marching, and whenever armies march, all kinds of people are put in motion.’
‘We don’t go so far upriver. Just to São Jobim: six hours up, four hours back, or less.’
‘It’s too far,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t do it, Brandon.’
Suddenly, she wanted to agree with him, tell him about her misgivings, and never leave the shelter of the convent again. She might have, if she hadn’t looked at Sister Maria Madelena just then, as the nun helped the two sisters with the baby into the back of the ox-led wagon that met every vessel.
She stood up. ‘I have to go now,’ she told him. ‘Sister Maria needs me.’
Hugh had seldom felt helpless in his maritime career. He felt helpless now, because he had no force majeure to work on Polly Brandon, nothing a husband would have. He had no tie, no commitment, nothing beyond his feeble effort to get a good woman with charity on her mind to listen to his worries that, for all he knew, were totally unfounded. It was a position he did not like.
Still, he could tell that she left his side reluctantly. For the tiniest moment, he wondered what she would do if he told her he loved her and would she please listen to him? He was being absurd, of course—too bad for her, too bad for him.
Since she seemed disinclined to leave him there, even as the wagon began its slow trip to the top of the bluff, he walked beside her. He noted that her hair was twisted in its funny knot, with a skewer through it. Without thinking, he suddenly pulled out the wooden wand, and smiled when she laughed and hit his arm.
‘Laura calls me a ragbag,’ she said cheerfully, as she took the skewer from him and wound up her topknot again. ‘Nana would scold me and ask how I ever planned to find a husband.’
Just look at me seriously, he thought. You’d have your answer. ‘It’s a good question, Brandon,’ he said, thinking how stupid it was the moment he said it.
‘Gentlemen never look past my spectacles, Colonel, so it doesn’t matter. Philemon tells me to forge my own way, precisely as my sisters have done. Everyone has advice,’ she grumbled.
She peered at him then in her kindly way that made him understand, no matter how grudgingly, what Sister Maria and the pitiful female dregs of war already knew: Polly Brandon was good and loyal and not afraid, no matter what she might say about herself to the contrary. They probably did need her. Too bad the thought gave him no comfort.
‘Come to dinner this evening,’ Polly asked him. ‘Colonel? Colonel? When I used to woolgather like you are doing, Miss Pym would rap my knuckles.’
Wordlessly he held out his hand, palm down, and she laughed, even as she blushed. Delightful.
‘I must say no,’ he replied, as they continued their slow walk to the convent. ‘I have already promised myself to the Lieutenant of Marines at the dock.’
She stopped. So did he. A fine frown line appeared between her eyes and she pursed her lips ever so slightly, just enough to make his back break out in sweat. ‘Are you avoiding me?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am, I am not,’ he lied, ‘even though dinner with Lieutenant Stephens means the mess hall. It is another opportunity to speak to the men I am interested in hearing from, to complete my report. I have a purpose here, too, you know.’
It came out more sharply than he intended, and Polly had nothing more to say as they walked to the top of the hill. He had shut her down, the last thing he wanted to do, especially when he was so worried.
‘Perhaps I could stop by at two bells into the dog watch. That’s seven o’clock, Brandon. You need to learn these things,’ he added, although why that would be necessary, he couldn’t say.
She grinned at him, then hurried ahead to catch up to the cart. He watched her go, admiring her purposeful stride that made her muslin gown sway so nicely, then did an about face and went down the hill.
Hugh hoped he would not see Laura Brittle when he returned to the convent at two bells, full of excellent Portuguese sausage and just enough grog to render him optimistic.
He barely saw Polly. She was lying in the grassy courtyard, dim now with twilight, a child sitting on her stomach and leaning against her upraised knees. The two were silently observing each other, until Polly suddenly darted her fingers into the soft places under his arms and he chortled. Hugh squatted on his heels beside her. The little boy observed him with solemn brown eyes, but did not seem intimidated.
‘This is João,’ she said. ‘João, this is Colonel Junot.’
‘You should teach him what my grandmama taught me,’ he said. With his forefinger, he began to describe a wide but narrowing circle targeting the child’s stomach. ‘“There was an old bee who lived in a barn, he carried his bagpipe under his arm, and the only tune that he could play was bzzz!”’ He aimed his finger at the little boy’s navel and zeroed in, to the child’s delight.
‘Say that again,’ Polly demanded, as she raised her hand to do as he had done.
He repeated the little rhyme that every child in Scotland probably knew, as Polly’s finger spiralled down, ending in the soft stomach of her totally willing target, who laughed again and made his own buzzing sound, as he tugged at
her finger.
‘The tough part now is to convince the child he doesn’t want to do it any more,’ Hugh teased. ‘Good luck.’
She smiled at him, which made his heart leap, then continued the finger play. When another child tossed a ball in his direction, João finally moved off. Polly stayed where she was in the grass. ‘I didn’t think I would see you again,’ she said.
‘It was a surprise to me, as well,’ he told her, as he plucked handfuls of grass and tossed them on her, enjoying her laugh as she let him. ‘We are heading to Ferrol Station, where I hope to catch a coastal lighter to Santander. Apparently Admiral Popham has been using his Marines to good effect in taking the town.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
He shrugged. ‘No more than anything else during a war. When I finish, I will take a frigate to Plymouth.’
She was silent for a long time. He stopped scattering grass on her and turned his attention to the children at play, obviously getting the last bit of fun out of whatever remained of daylight. He noticed Laura Brittle observing him from the shadows of the colonnade and nodded to her. When he looked back at Polly, she was asleep.
When on earth do you really sleep? he thought, wanting to pick her up and deposit her in a bed of his choosing. I’m a fool, he told himself, as he got to his feet, brushed the grass off his hands, and left the courtyard and the sleeping woman who meant more to him than anyone he had ever met.
Philemon sat farther away in the colonnade, holding his son. ‘Do that bee thing for me,’ he said.
Hugh laughed and did it again. ‘It’s probably a more popular export than Knox’s spare Presbyterianism and oatmeal porridge. Certainly better than haggis, but what isn’t?’ He sat beside the surgeon.
‘You have not been cured of my sister-in-law,’ Philemon said, with utterly no preamble.
‘No,’ Hugh said, amazed at the surgeon’s direct approach, but not entirely surprised by it. He had discovered years ago that people with no time to spare seldom wasted words.
