The Lost Love of a Soldier

by Jane Lark

  “Simply, ma’am,” the woman said at last, then she took a breath. “We mostly ride upon the baggage carts if the men are on the march, but sometimes we must walk if the terrain is too difficult for the horses or the carts. When we travel by boat, then we must make do with whatever accommodation we can obtain.” The woman’s hand shook a little as she took another mouthful of her broth, as if she was afraid of speaking.

  Ellen looked across the scored dark oak table at another woman; they had all been listening. Ellen asked, “And where do you sleep, and stay when the men are camped?”

  “Wherever we may, ma’am. We share our men’s tents, and they are put up and taken down often if the men are on the march. Or if they are defending a place or preparing for battle then we camp in one place–”

  “But the Captain will be billeted.” one of the other women said, looking at her friend not Ellen.

  The woman who had spoken initially looked at the other, then nodded at Ellen. “Yes, the officers, if we are to remain in any one place for long, will find a room, or a farmhouse to take them in, or somewhere they may be put up. They are only in their tents if the regiment is marching and nowhere is near… If the men are in barracks though, they must find us accommodation nearby”

  Ellen looked along the table at Paul. He talked animatedly with the men, then laughed before he took a sip from a tankard.

  Swallowing another mouthful of the foul broth, Ellen then asked. “What have you seen?”

  All the women glanced at one another. They were uneasy. They did not like speaking with her and from their hesitance and nervousness, she guessed they were uncomfortable because she was an officer’s wife, and a wellborn woman. But one of the women answered in a whisper, “Many horrible things, ma’am. Many things a woman would not wish to see … But that is war, and I would rather be with my Michael here, than in England, not knowing if he is alive or dead, or will ever return to me.”

  “And I could not bear to let Tommy go to America and never see him for months or years, ma’am.” Another woman chimed in, smiling nervously at Ellen.

  She looked the closest to Ellen in age, perhaps only a few years older. Nancy. Her name flew into Ellen’s head, plucked from all those she’d been told in the last few days. She had been introduced as Mistress Bowman, but asked Ellen to call her by her given name.

  Ellen was making them feel awkward sitting among them, Nancy’s voice had quivered.

  “And what do you all do?” The question came out on a breath of longing, as the life Ellen had left behind tumbled through her thoughts – memories of playing her pianoforte, sitting and working silently on embroidery among her sisters; learning to dance with the master who had come to the house once a week; sitting and reading aloud to her sisters before they went to sleep…

  All the women looked at her oddly. “Why, we wash the men’s clothing, and cook for them. There is little time for anything else, ma’am.”

  The question proved Ellen’s naivety. They had never played a pianoforte, or perhaps even seen one, and they had certainly never sat in the warmth of the sun engrossed in a book – they could not read. Blushing, Ellen changed her question to ask about what the men did.

  When it came time to sleep, the tables and benches were collapsed and secured along the sides of the galley.

  The low ceilinged room which forced Paul to bend over constantly then became a dormitory for a hundred or more men, all rolling out pallets. Ellen watched as Paul laid out theirs. It was only wide enough for one.

  “Do you wish to undress?” he whispered as he slipped the buttons on the coat of his uniform free.

  Biting her lip, Ellen shook her head. She’d shared a room with her sisters when she was younger, but this… she would suffer two nights in her dress rather than disrobe down to her chemise. The women’s conversation haunted her. What if it was always to be like this?

  And what would happen when they sailed to America?

  “The women said that when the regiment camp, you are billeted. Do you share that accommodation too?”

  He looked up and smiled. “Sometimes, but that is only during war, when we are fighting. In America we will most often be in barracks, and then I will hire lodgings to share with you and not live among the men. America will different to the Peninsular War. The situation is not the same.”

  “And the woman you said you will hire for me…”

  “Will have her own room. She will be your maid of all work, Ellen. You shall not live exactly as the wives of the soldiers live.”

  She longed for the woman who Paul intended to hire to help her when they reached Cork. She was out of her depth without servants and she did not think herself proud, but she had come from a sheltered life. This was so different from her father’s Palladian mansion with its many rooms, and statement of wealth – this low ceilinged space, was too enclosed. With so many others here, it felt overcrowded and as if the walls closed in.

  She would beg Paul to secure them a cabin for the longer journey.

  Most of the lanterns hanging from the low beams had been extinguished, but a few still burned, one near the ladder leading to the upper deck and a couple beside some of the men’s pallets.

  All about her the men were in varying states of dress and undress as they retired, though none were naked.

  She turned her eyes to Paul, and watched him lie down and lift the wool blanket for her. Nervousness warring with embarrassment, she knelt and then lay down beside him trying to look only at the wooden planking of the ship. Her pillow was his muscular arm as it rested beneath her head. His other arm surrounded her, his hand on her stomach, as she lay with her back against his chest. His shallow breathing stirred her hair.

  She did not sleep, merely lay there, her thoughts absorbed by the odd rock and sway of the ship, and the sound of so many men breathing heavily in the shadow filled space.

  When she woke, Paul was rising, moving from behind her, and about them others stirred. She felt as if she’d had just a moment’s sleep. “I’m sorry you must get up,” he whispered to her as she watched him slipping on his scarlet coat. “You will learn to shut your eyes and sleep no matter where you are in the end, because if you do not, you’ll never rest.”

  Ellen nodded and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Then she stretched. He’d said this life would be hard. She had not imagined it like this…

  “Go with one of the women freshen up, while we set up the benches.” He looked away. “Mistress Porter, would you help my wife?”

  This was all so strange.

  ~

  The ship swayed constantly – it was no different than Ellen’s emotions, trepidation rocked inside her. Soon they would be sailing for America and travelling for weeks. She was doing her best to fit in among the women, but everything was so alien it was not easy.

  Paul had spent a couple of hours with her on deck, as she stood at the rail, just watching the acres of ocean reaching to the horizon, but beyond those hours she’d stood alone mostly. When she approached the other women, their conversation dropped to silence before they curtsied. They were clearly uncomfortable around her and she did not like to upset them.

  When it was time to retire, she slipped beneath the blanket quickly, leaving him to undress.

  When he lay behind her he wore only his underwear and a shirt – she could feel the muscular definition of his body. His hand gently pressed against her stomach. The breathing of the men about them calmed as people drifted into sleep and the movement in the room stilled as the last few lamps were extinguished. Without the lamplight, the galley sunk into a depth of pitch black.

  She had not heard Paul’s breathing change.

  He pressed a kiss on her neck.

  Her stomach turned a somersault.

  Then his fingers urged her body back tighter against his.

  His arousal pressed against her back and bottom through the layers of her gown and her petticoats.

  “Lie back,” he whispered into her ear.

  She did
as he urged, rolling onto her back, and he moved over her.

  “Here…” The word was spoken on her breath.

  “Here or never, Ellen, there will be hundreds of nights like this when the men are about us; simply be quiet.” His words were spoken in a very low whisper.

  Ellen longed to look and check if anyone watched them, but it was too dark to see and no sound indicated they did.

  “Raise your skirt and petticoat.”

  Her heart pounded as she did so, looking up, but she could not even see his face.

  His fingers slipped between her legs, rubbing for a moment, and then sliding inside her, the movement slow and gentle, drawing her thoughts away from the room and anyone but him. Then he slipped his underwear lower on his hips. The same hand gripped her thigh and moved her legs further apart.

  She bit her lip when he entered her, and she carried on biting it as he moved within her, in a slow steady motion. Her heart thumped and her breathing grew short, as if the air disappeared from the galley.

  They were covered by the blanket and it was dark, none of the men would see anything if they did watch. But they might know what was happening.

  He pressed a kiss on her temple as he continued moving, as though he sensed her insecurity, but he did not speak, probably to avoid increasing the risk of waking his men.

  The spell he could create began to weave its charm, whispering through her blood and spinning into her limbs.

  Her fingers gripped his hips, grasping the muscle moving beneath his skin.

  “Paul.” She could not prevent his name escaping.

  “Hush, Ellen.”

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip again, absorbing every heavenly sensation, and he moved more quickly.

  She opened her eyes her fingers touching a hollow in his cheek. It implied he’d gritted his teeth.

  Her thighs gripped about his hips involuntarily as the sensation inside her swelled, and then there was one deep last push and his seed spilled into her. She opened her mouth, her breath releasing – while his body shuddered. Then his weight came down onto her and she held him as he lay still for a moment.

  When he moved, he brushed a kiss on her cheek before laying on his side, as she turned to hers. Her back brushed against his chest.

  “I love you,” he whispered to her hair.

  Tears slipped from Ellen’s eyes.

  “Are you well?” He could not have seen her tears, though perhaps he sensed them.

  “Yes, I am well.” She was. She was happier than she’d ever been, no matter the oddness of his world – she could still feel the intensity of his love for her.

  “Sleep now.”

  She understood there were two sides to Paul; here he must be the soldier, but he had wanted her to know the other half of him was still there. The man who loved and needed her.

  She did sleep and she slept well, wrapped in his arms.

  Chapter Eight

  Ellen sat with a quill poised in her fingers and an empty page lay on the oak table before her. After four weeks in Cork, the weather had not been good enough to sail. She’d written to her mother and to Penny. She’d told her mother she was well, but impatient to complete their journey. To Penny she’d written a dozen amusing little stories of her adventures, describing Paul’s men and their atrocious ability to maintain polite language in her hearing – and about the women, who were kind and supportive yet kept their distance. She had a woman to help her now, as maid, cook, washerwoman and everything else, though currently, while they lived in the inn, her only duties were as a companion and ladies’ maid.

  Ellen looked at the blank page. She’d no idea what to say to her father. She’d received no response to her last letters.

  The quill twirled in her fingers. No words came.

  She looked out the window at the busy street. She knew Paul was restless. He wanted to be on his way. The waiting was difficult.

  Words came at last and she looked back at the paper and dipped the quill in the ink then wiped the nib clear of drops, before writing simply.

  Dear Father,

  I hope you will forgive me for marrying Paul. But I am happy. We are happy. I have told Mama how we are waiting to sail to America, but the winds will not calm enough to allow it. I think we shall be here another couple of weeks, if you wish to write to me before we leave?

  Your daughter

  Eleanor

  She looked at the words for a moment, before blotting them and then folding the letter. She sealed it by heating the red wax over a flame lit from a flint, and letting a couple of drops fall onto the folded page.

  Once she’d addressed it, she placed it with the others and moved to fetch her cloak. Then she went in search of her maid, to ask the woman to accompany her to put them in the post. She could have asked the woman to simply take them, but Ellen wished for air, and Paul would not be back until dinner.

  ~

  Ellen stood on the edge of the harbour wall watching the waves crash against it. The sea was still too angry for the ships to sail. Foam and spray spewed over the top of the wall as the waves hit it, and tiny droplets of salty water blew into her face.

  This was her favourite thing to do, to come down to the harbour and watch the sea. She liked to come during the hours Paul drilled his men because at this early hour, the harbour was less busy as long as the tide was out.

  Another four weeks had passed and more since she’d written to her family, but there had been no reply. Each day she looked out across the sea thinking of her mother and her sisters, wondering how they were, and what they thought of her desertion. Were they angry with her? Was that why they had not written? Ships reached Cork from England every week but no letters came.

  Ellen stood for a little while longer, just watching the tug of war the tide played with the waves, throwing them against the harbour wall, before pulling them back.

  She felt like the sea. She was happy with Paul, and this life had become normal, yet when they left for America it would be abnormal again. The part of her which missed her mother and her sisters still tried to pull her back.

  Ellen turned her back on the water and faced her maid. The woman stood a few steps back. “Jennifer, I’m sorry to leave you standing in the cold. We will go home.” Home? An inn was not a home – yet they’d been here so many weeks.

  But when would she have a home again, if they were to always travel?

  Home.

  Paul was home – and so the inn was home – that was the answer. She did not need a place, just him.

  To stave off boredom, she’d begun sewing shirts and cravats for Paul. The task filled the hours she sat alone. At home she would have embroidered, but embroidery had little purpose here; it would appear ostentatious. Sewing was the occupation she decided to return to as she walked back through the cobbled streets, with Jennifer keeping pace beside her.

  The streets were busier than they would normally be and everyone seemed to be huddled together in small groups and talking in hurried whispers. A group they passed splintered and began another conversation with others. Ellen could not hear.

  “What are they talking about, Jennifer?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  It had rained last night, and the cobbles were damp and glistening with a metallic glow as the grey stormy sky reflected back. A sense of doom, of eerie disappointment, settled over Ellen as she walked the last hundred yards. Something was happening, something ominous.

  When she reached the inn instead of going to their room, she sat in the parlour Paul had hired for their use and gathered up her sewing, but her fingers shook, making it difficult to thread a needle. It was silly to feel anxious merely because people talked in the street, and yet after luncheon, as the afternoon turned to evening and Paul had not returned, her anxiety grew.

  She kept looking towards the door of the parlour each time she heard footsteps on the flagstones beyond the door, her heart setting up a sharp rhythm…

  He was late.

 
“Should I order your dinner, ma’am,” Jennifer sat in a chair across the room, also sewing.

  “No Jennifer, I will wait for my husband.”

  But half an hour later and Paul had still not come.

  Ellen wondered if she should ask someone in the inn to send a message to the barracks. But surely he would have sent word if anything was wrong.

  She put her sewing down on the arm of the chair, to go and ask. Then finally she heard familiar strong heavy footsteps in the hall. Paul.

  She stood just as the door opened.

  The scent and chill of cold air seeped from his greatcoat. It had been trapped in the cloth. “Paul?” She moved towards him as his blue eyes settled on her. His whole body implied concern. Something was wrong…

  “Ellen, have you heard?” He spoke sharply – the military officer.

  “Heard?”

  “You have not?”

  She shook her head.

  “Napoleon is free.”

  “Free…” But the war with France was over. Napoleon was imprisoned. We are to sail to America.

  “He escaped Elba at the end of February. He’s already gathering an army. We are no longer going to America. We have orders to sail to Ostend.”

  “To Ostend?” A lead weight fell in her stomach. She’d heard how many men had been killed before. The papers spoke of crippled soldiers begging in the streets and announced the loss of husbands, sons and brothers in obituaries.

  He took her hands. “You must pack tonight and make ready. I’m not sure when we will sail. As soon as we may.”

  Such a sudden change.

  “I’m sorry, I cannot stay to dine. I’ll eat with the officers. We need to plan. But I wished to let you know what is happening, so you might prepare.”

  Fear rushed through her – a sense she would lose him. But how silly. He’d survived years of the Peninsular War. She knew he was capable. Even so she hugged him, her arms reaching about his neck. “I love you.”

  “And I you, Ellen. I shall return as quickly as I can, but eat without me. Do not wait.” His arms came about her for a moment, but he held her stiffly, then set her away, smiling quickly, before he left.