by Jaima Fixsen
“Let me be the managing one for a change,” he said.
Anna frowned, and for a moment he feared she’d scald his ears. She’d done it to Griggs, Bartolome and the doctor. Even Jamieson, who stopped in regularly to take note of Alistair’s progress and gawp at Anna, took care to mind her gentlest suggestions. Only her son and her husband were allowed to give any trouble.
“Come on. I want to see you dance,” Alistair said. There would be music and wine and jollity; though he didn’t mind keeping Anna to himself, he didn’t want people thinking he was ashamed of her. “If I can’t endure a few miles in a wagon, how will I manage the trip to England?”
“A few miles! It’s at least fifteen.”
“That’s not many. How far is Oporto?”
Her answering parry was feeble. “I’ve nothing to wear.”
True, her trunks had only yielded up practical clothing. “Doesn’t matter. If you wore a feed sack you’d still outshine them all.” The gloss on her hair and the shine in her eyes might be the effect of his own mind, but the smiles weren’t. They fluttered across her face and lighted on her lips, too many and too often to count. He’d never seen a woman more beautiful than Anna smiling. “Wear the blue muslin and your black mantilla.” Griggs, wonder that he was, had procured hair combs too.
“I don’t like leaving Henry.”
They’d be away overnight if they went to Freineda. Unless he drank much more wine than he intended, Alistair didn’t want to endure those fifteen miles in the hours before dawn. A friend had offered to put them up so Alistair could sleep for a few hours and make the return journey once it was daylight. “Nothing will happen to Henry,” Alistair assured her. “Not with Mrs. Orfila, Bartolome and Griggs to look after him.” She knew it was true, but wouldn’t relinquish the worry. She was never entirely easy without her son near, which was understandable, he supposed. “He’s safe here, so long as he stays out of Mrs. Orfila’s sitting room,” Alistair reminded her. “You’ll never see a party like this again.”
It would be filled with smart uniforms and threadbare ones, wives and women given that courteous assumption. The food would be awful—had to be, since it was being driven over from the depot in Ciudad Rodrigo once it was cooked—but there would be plenty of wine, plenty of toasts, plenty of boasting and blustering. There might be a hole in the dance floor and bare plaster on the walls, but the guests would dance until they were too fuddled to find their way across the floor. His friends would congratulate him on his wife and commiserate over his leg—rotten luck, Beaumaris!—and he’d wish them well too, knowing come spring, they’d be on the march again and he wouldn’t be here to see it. Before much longer, he hoped to be off, if the weather didn’t make the journey to Oporto impractical. The trip would be easier if they began before Anna’s money ran out—it would be nigh impossible to pry his back pay from the quartermaster.
“I don’t—”
“Anna,” he interrupted. “Unless you’ve lost your legs, there’s no reason not to go.”
As he’d predicted, Anna looked lovely in her blue gown, but neither he nor the mirror could convince her. She still wore a worried frown. Attempting to steer her away from the mirror (if she wasn’t satisfied now, she’d never be), Alistair heard a voice from the sitting room.
“Henry Morris? Good. Where’s your mother?”
Anna rushed past him before he could blink. He followed after, his crutches clumping on the scarred plank floors.
They found Cyril, struggling to free himself from the sofa. He looked from Alistair to Anna to Henry, who was sidling into the corner by the fireplace and glaring suspiciously at Cyril.
“Cyril.” Alistair greeted him with a nod. “Anna, I think you’ve met my brother. Cyril, my wife and my stepson, Henry.”
Cyril swallowed, a gulp that seemed to encompass the entire room. “So it’s done, then?” He played nervously with a button on his waistcoat.
“A week ago. Shame you missed it.”
Cyril exhaled, ruffling the hair so carefully disarranged about his forehead. He rocked back onto his heels, feebly insisting how pleased he was to see Anna and to find his brother married.
“Nice to see you out and about,” he said, blinking again at the space where Alistair’s foot used to be.
“Let’s have some tea,” Anna said, seating herself grimly on the sofa.
“Wo-wonderful!” said Cyril.
Alistair inquired after his journey, unsurprised that his travails were considerably more acute than Anna’s had been.
“I can’t believe you managed it, ma’am,” he said, looking at Anna with some trepidation.
“I expect you have a softer skin,” Anna said, setting aside her spoon.
And a softer head, Alistair thought.
“Well, the important thing is everyone’s still breathing and in one piece—” Cyril drew to a strangled halt.
“Nearly,” Alistair said. “Have you a place to stay?”
“Oh, I’ll stay with you.” Cyril didn’t notice Anna’s dark look.
“We’re going to a party tonight in Freineda,” Alistair said, with an apologetic glance at his wife. “You really must come.”
Cyril attired himself from his numerous boxes in putty-colored breeches and a dark blue coat he’d never have been able to don without Griggs’s assistance. It molded to his shoulders much more closely than Alistair’s uniform. He was thinner than he used to be.
“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to dance with such a handsome sister-in-law,” Cyril said, as they set out. Alistair tried to swallow his irritation, but it wasn’t easy, with Cyril riding beside the wagon on his own horse. He’d lent him the black. It hurt less than seeing Cyril on the other one. Just looking at the mare made him ache for everything he’d lost.
“Go on ahead,” Alistair urged after a few miles. Cyril was growing impatient with the wagon’s pace, and he was impatient with Cyril. Anna, her face closed as a clam, hadn’t said anything for several minutes.
“You see why I had to marry you so quickly,” Alistair said, before Cyril’s hoofbeats were out of hearing. “If you’d acquainted yourself with more of my family, I’d have been jilted.” He grinned. “Once was enough for that.”
“We’re going to have to bring him back to London,” Anna said.
“Yes, and the whole way he’ll be trying to steal the services of Griggs. I mean, I don’t particularly like managing without one, but Cyril’s near helpless without a valet.”
“I used to feel bad for cutting you off from your family.”
“I don’t think you have, but even if you did, I’d consider it a gift, I assure you.”
She settled herself firmly under his arm. “Tell me the future,” she said.
It was a game they’d started the last few days, to stop Alistair from gasping and biting through his lip when Anna changed his bandages. Usually he tried to appall her by predicting a shabby set of rooms redolent of boiled cabbages, with darned stockings hanging in front of a miniature fire. “We’ll have to ration out the coal mighty carefully, you see.” This time they begged a home with her parents, until they threw Alistair out for making love to Anna in the middle of the day.
“I’d follow you,” Anna promised.
“You might like a rest,” Alistair teased. “It was every day, you understand.”
“Practically persecution,” Anna murmured.
“Quite.” Alistair pushed his head into the cowl of her hood. “Mmmn.”
But when he tried to draw away, Anna whispered, “Persecute me some more.”
He gave her a quick peck. “Not a chance. It’s not full dark yet. I don’t want the driver rolling us into the road. And what about the officers and their ladies that pass? I, at least, have a reputation to maintain.”
Anna laughed. “I expect the sight would do wonders for your reputation. They’ll toast you all night long.”
It was slow, traveling like this, but it wasn’t so bad with Anna’s company. “We might be the last t
o arrive, but we can be sure dinner won’t start without us,” Alistair said, spying the lights of Freineda glimmering ahead.
Anna sighed. “Must we go? I’m happy right here.”
“I’m hungry,” Alistair said.
“Supper is right beside you,” Anna said. “You should have taken some before, when it was halfway warm.”
“I can only eat off the best china,” he said loftily.
“I’ll remember that. For the cabbages,” Anna retorted.
He picked up his crutches and shifted to the back of the wagon.
“Be there in a minute, Captain,” called a batman, pressed into service for the evening. He helped Anna down first, then Alistair, standing by as Anna brushed down their clothes. He’d never seen Anna give her clothes such care since she’d arrived. While she tried to look at the back of her skirts, he pointed the batman to their case of overnight things, directing him to take it to tonight’s temporary lodging. Anna was still fussing with her dress.
“I’d hate to have to tell Henry your courage failed you,” he said.
She lifted her eyebrows in challenge. “Unlike you, I haven’t a talent for humbling people with a glance,” she said.
Promising to do it to everyone but her, he swung forward on his crutches, wishing it were possible to take her by the arm. She stayed close though, and he didn’t think it was only because she feared for his stability. They were only a yard or two through the doorway, clustered with other guests removing cloaks and overcoats when Cyril pushed his way through the crowd.
“Don’t take her in,” he said, speaking low in Alistair’s ear.
“What do you mean?” Alistair said, annoyed now. “Of course I’m bringing her in. We came all this way.” The only advantage of crutches was that people tended to give him a clear path. “Come on, Anna,” he said, pausing with the crutches propped under his shoulders so he could stretch out his hand. She moved to his side again, not looking to see if Cyril followed behind them.
At first he noticed nothing. The room was too full, packed with golden epaulets and gleaming boots, lace and plumes and the gloved arms of ladies. Nodding at the faces he knew, they penetrated a little way into the crowd, into the hot, heavy-scented air. The dark timbered ceiling pressed down on them.
“People are staring at me,” Anna whispered under her breath.
“Of course. You’re the most beautiful lady here.” They moved a little further, sidestepping a scowling man with heavy side whiskers. “Evening, Kelling,” Alistair said. The man gave a loud harrumph.
“That’s not why,” Anna said, sounding half-strangled.
“Nonsense,” Alistair said, but it wasn’t. Anna was drawing stares. Not kind ones either.
“Let’s find Jamieson,” he said, squeezing her hand. They just needed to find a corner with friends in it, where they could visit until supper. The lady in front of them drew her skirts aside with a sniff.
“Please. Let’s go,” Anna whispered, putting her hand on his arm.
He stopped. Anna’s face was white, her smile gone. The moment he relented, a black clad shoulder turned toward them, opening a circle of avid faces and revealing Frederick Morris, his smooth hair gold in the candlelight.
Anna started, her hand closing around Alistair’s arm. Frederick gave Anna a long look, then turned deliberately back to his listeners. “It was a gruesome journey, but what could I do? The worries for my nephew were ten times worse . . . . ”
“Take me out of here,” Anna said.
Alistair complied, all gentle solicitude, inwardly carving out Morris’s entrails. His heart beat loud in his ears, overpowering the whispers that trailed them.
“What about Henry?” Anna gasped, clutching Alistair’s arm at the door of his friend’s lodging.
“Probably playing cards with Griggs,” Alistair said. “Wait here. I’ll see to it. Sleep if you can.” He kissed her wet cheek, then returned to the festivities.
“What’s happened?” he asked Cyril, who he found lurking by the door.
“Fellow was here when I arrived. Said he’d come to Spain to find your wife, though he claimed he was surprised you’d gone and married her. Said he feared you were a victim of her deceits. There’s plenty of people amused with the idea that you’ve finally been taken in. And a good number who are downright angry you had the bad manners to bring her. Morris has come to reclaim the boy. Says she can’t be trusted with him.”
“Any number of army wives travel with their children,” Alistair said, tense as a coiled spring. “Ladies, even.”
“I’m just telling you what he said,” Cyril said.
“It’s all over the room?” Alistair asked.
“What do you think?”
Following on the heels of his broken engagement over the summer, this story topped anything else, even the rumors of Lord and Lady Westing’s divorce. Well, he knew what to do. Standing as proudly as he could—a difficult thing, with crutches—Alistair moved into the room. Finding a prominent place, well lit, well-spaced, he glared at Morris, who was laughing scurrilously with a couple of riflemen. One of them nudged Morris with his elbow, directing him to look at Alistair. Ignoring the rifleman’s cautious tilt of the head, Morris let his face fall into a sneer.
“You can’t challenge him,” Cyril whispered at his elbow.
“Can’t I? What provocation would you think appropriate?”
“I’m not saying you don’t have cause—”
“I can still shoot,” said Alistair, silencing his brother.
He didn’t let himself be distracted by conversation or the friends who approached, trying to draw him off. He was polite, exquisitely so, but his eyes never left Morris for long.
“Where’s your wife?” asked an cocky infantry lieutenant as Alistair sat down for dinner.
“She felt unwell,” Alistair replied.
The lieutenant smirked.
“Anyone would, with Morris for a brother-in-law,” Alistair said blandly, serving himself from a dish of peas.
“What about the child?” a woman down the table asked.
“My stepson is a remarkable boy,” Alistair said. “Nearly as brave as his mother. She came to Spain to escape Morris as much as for my own sake—the boy was taken from her when only an infant. He inherited her fortune when her husband died, and Frederick Morris can’t afford to be without it.”
“No!” gasped the long-faced lady.
Tempted to strike the round eyes off their faces, Alistair dabbed his mouth instead. “It’s a nuisance, but it seems I must remind Morris to be careful of the way he behaves to my wife. But enough of that. Dawlish, you’re late of London. How does my cousin Jasper?”
He didn’t plan to wait out the dancing. Tonight’s cross and jostle work was nearly done.
“Ask Morris to come speak with me,” he said to Cyril after dinner. “Do it kindly. If he demurs, tell him I would cross the room, but my leg pains me.”
Cyril gave a silent whistle, but he went. He returned a moment later, bringing Morris.
“And your friends!” Alistair exclaimed as he approached. “Really, this is most convenient.”
“Is it?” said Morris, his lip surly.
“Indeed. I should like them to hear your apology.” Alistair shifted on his crutches. After leaning on them for hours, his arms hurt. It was important in the next few days to take good care of them.
“I won’t apologize to you, Beaumaris,” spat Morris. “Where’s Henry? You’ve no right to him.”
“Gently, my friend. You’re making a scene. Dueling isn’t illegal here, but Wellington doesn’t like it.” Which didn’t stop affairs of honor. Over the years Alistair had heard any number of cock and bull stories about ‘shooting accidents.’
“Are you challenging me?”
“Yes, if you don’t see your way to an apology. I’m not going to stomach insults to my wife.”
Morris swore, twisting his head when a flock of ladies moved further away.
“Was that
necessary?” Alistair asked.
“I’ll tell you what’s necessary! Give me back my nephew. And keep an eye on that jade of yours. If she didn’t let half the county into her bed, it wasn’t for lack of try—”
Alistair leaned closer, laying a hand on Morris’s shoulder. He squeezed. Hard.
“My dear friend,” he whispered. “I advise you to be careful. And to unsay those words. If not for your own sake, you should think of Henry.”
Morris tried to shrug off Alistair’s hand.
“We are in company,” Alistair warned him. “It is advisable for others to think we both know how to behave. Do you accept my challenge?”
“Yes, and I wish you well of it!” Morris said, red-faced.
“Then I wish you good evening. Cyril, you will do me the favor of meeting Morris’s friends tomorrow, won’t you?”
“I’ll walk you home,” Cyril said.
Once they were outside, the headiness of the challenge evaporating into the deep sky, Cyril allowed himself to swear long and fluently. “You can’t mean it. It’s impossible. I’ll fix things with Morris’s seconds tomorrow. Of course you couldn’t ignore such provocation—”
“Morris won’t relent,” Alistair interrupted. “He wouldn’t meet me before. Now he thinks he has a chance. He wants me dead because I’m a trouble to him, but with my leg gone he can’t issue a challenge himself.”
“I should dashed well think so! How do you propose to meet him? With one leg!”
“It only takes one hand to fire a gun. I can sit on a chair—or if Morris is unwilling to agree to that, I can have a crutch under my left shoulder.”
“I’m not letting him put a hole in you! Is life so cheap, that you’d fling it away?”
Alistair stopped, then swung himself forward again. “I’ve risked my life any number of times the last ten years. Made a career of it. You never got exercised over it before.”
“War’s different,” Cyril countered.
“However it comes, I expect death is the same.”
“You were close enough recently to have some idea,” Cyril said. He kicked a loose stone, sending it skidding across the narrow street. “I’ll be your proxy,” he muttered.
