Autumn Rain (19 page)

"You'll not make a fool of me again! Behave as a child, and I shall treat you as one—do you hear me? You'll not shame me before Lady Jersey again—or any of the others!"

He struck her perhaps ten times, venting his anger, then threw the cane across the floor, reminding her of that other time, the humiliation of her wedding night. And she hated him for it.

"I'll have no whore in this house!"

"And you have none," she managed through clenched teeth.

He seemed to recall himself then, and as he walked to pick up his cane, he spoke more calmly. "Despite your rash behavior, we shall come about, Elinor. I have come too far and spent too much to retreat in disarray to Stoneleigh." Moving closer, he reached to brush her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. "You are to be admired, my dear—but not touched. You are Kingsley's Venus—not Longford's."

CHAPTER 17

Near Salamanca, Spain: July, 1812

It had been hot, almost unbearably so, for days, and Wellington had taken successive defensive postures, drawing his smaller force back from the city, despite having been welcomed enthusiastically but days before. It was the first time any could remember the sober, iron-disciplined general being nearly unhorsed by a horde of admiring ladies.

But now they waited cautiously in the Spanish hills for the French under General Marmont to move. For the time being, it appeared to be a Spanish standoff, with the French trying to stay until harvest, thus supplying their army for another year, and the English considering withdrawing again into Portugal to protect their own supply lines.

For a fortnight, they had faced each other across the shallow Douro River, feinting and parrying under cover of darkness, until Wellington gave the order to draw back again. And for another six days, the two armies had played cat and mouse beneath the blazing Spanish sun, so close that an occasional sniper could bring down an enemy on either side. Above, expectant vultures circled, waiting, providing grim targets and macabre jests for the army.

For Lucien, used to his general's less than glory-seeking tactics, the wait was rather ordinary. For Charles Kingsley, eager to join the fray, eager to beat the Frogs, that same wait was interminable. And now as rumor filtered down through the ranks that Wellington meant to withdraw again, giving up much of what they had won, he and many of his fellow dragoons were disappointed. Though not under Longford's command, whenever he encountered the earl, which was not as often as he would have wished, the boy complained bitterly. On this day, the twenty-first of July, he could scarce contain his ire.

"If we run back to Portugal, it'll be another year before we can take 'em. Don't see why we don't attack and end it."

"Supply," Longford told him tersely, tired of having to justify Wellington's orders to his own grumbling men. "An army eats—and drinks. It's why I would have you go with Walton—supply is the utmost—"

"Don't want to," Charles grumbled. "Dash it—if
anything's
to happen, I want to be here! And so I told Major Barry! I didn't come over here to guard wagons— I came to fight!"

"Then you are a fool," Longford told him. "If it gets too hungry, an army does not fight at all."

Knowing that the earl was vexed with him, Charley tried to control his own anger at the man's meddling. "All the same—" But there was no denying that they were already hungry, cut to three-quarter rations and a pint of rum every other day now.

"Well, she cannot say I did not try," Lucien murmured, shrugging. Turning on his heels, he walked away.

Charles shaded his eyes against the white-hot sun and watched him go, wondering what he'd meant by that. Somehow, and he knew not why, he'd expected Longford to understand, to know what it meant to win his spurs as a man. But the earl seemed almost detached from the war, as though he was there because there was nowhere else to be, as though the glory he'd achieved meant nothing to him.

The war, or what he'd seen of it so far, was not what Charles had expected. His woolen serge uniform itched in the heat, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and he stank until he could smell himself. Moreover, given the conservation of rations, it seemed to him that he was in a constant state of hunger. To make matters worse, the blanket that passed for his bed was infested with fleas, the tent that sheltered him torn and tattered. And, being the most junior of junior officers, many of whom had served together since Talavera and before, he was constantly lonely.

"Cold 'un—don't snap under fire. Ain't a man as I'd rather serve under, including Wellington himself," a man observed as Longford left.

"Aye," another agreed, "ain't afraid like some of the swells, ye know. Guess he got it from Mad Jack."

"Don't know how, but he survives." A fellow spit on the hardened earth. "One of fifteen as came back outer five hundred."

"Aye."

Charles unbuttoned his sweat-soaked coat and loosened his sticky cravat, pulling it away from his neck to cool his chest. They could call fighting hell, he reflected grimly, but he was ready for anything to take his mind off the heat—and the loneliness. It seemed that there was not a waking hour when he did not long to pour out his heart to Nell, either in thought or on paper.

Evening came and clouds began rolling in, blackening the sky in contrast to the layered orange sunset. Charles propped his secondhand tent, unrolled his blanket, and leaned back against his saddle to write, first in his journal, and then to Elinor.

In the beginning, he'd written her daily, but as one day became so very like another, and there was only so much one could say about heat and flies and fleas, he'd taken to keeping the journal, filling it with anecdotes of experiences like his first attempt to milk a goat, or the scrawny chickens that had mysteriously appeared despite an order not to plunder, tales of the foibles, the fears, and the hopes of his fellows, and long passages of his longing for her. It would be a record of sorts, something to share with her when he got home again. Who knew? Maybe he could publish his account of the summer of '12.

This night he wrote of his near-quarrel with the earl, for Longford had spoken earlier with Major Barry about sending him to accompany the empty supply carts back to the safety of Portugal. There was no glory in guarding flour wagons, he wrote resentfully, not when the fires of the French were so close that the smoke mingled with theirs. If only the French would move, if only they could be engaged, he would taste the glory of battle, he would feel it had been worth what he'd endured.

Despite his taciturn manner, Longford felt something was about—Charles sensed it. And despite his resentment of the man's interference just now, he still admired him above the other officers. If only Longford would understand that he wasn't a boy in need of protection, not anymore. All he needed was the chance to show the others that he could ride and fight with the best of them. He wasn't going with any supply train, thanks to his own plea to Barry. He was going to stay and be a man like the rest of them.

As lightning flashed closer and the thunder rumbled ominously, he finished describing his day, then tore a blank page from the back of his journal book and began a separate letter to Elinor, taking care that should it fall into his grandfather's hands, the old man would not throw it away. But he could not refrain from addressing her informally, his own way of establishing a degree of intimacy, he supposed.

Drst Nell,

After weeks of waiting, it now appears that you will get your wish, and I shall be safely returned to Portugal to await the winter there. It's a waste, but for all that I would have it otherwise, I am far too low for Wellington to listen to me.

Your letter of the 24th last reached me yesterday, heartening me greatly, though I cannot like it that you are still subjected to the importunities of a man like Bellamy Townsend. When I am come home, I mean to speak to Grandpapa about it, for it seems singularly ill-advised to allow a rake to be forever in your company. It's like inviting a viper to strike.

Today I saw Longford, and for all that others see him as cold and distant, I must admit he has tolerated me rather well when we are met. In fact, when one gets to know him, he can be droll in a macabre way. One of his leftenants is oft-quoted, insisting that God spares him for not even the Devil would have him, but there's not a man as would not follow him against the Frogs. I would that I had had the fortune of serving under him rather than Barry.

Since last I wrote you, there was a bit of a turn-up in Salamanca itself, when a senorita made sheep's eyes at poor Longford, and her family was determined that he should marry her. He entertained her father armed to the teeth, his rifle over his shoulder, his cartridge case slung at his waist, his saber at hand, saying that he had no objection to the match—provided she did not mind carrying his gear into battle. The girl's interest waned on the instant, providing us with a great deal of amusement when she called him a savage. Hargrove—my leftenant—said Longford looked as fierce as a Cossack, but never having seen one, I cannot attest to that.

I do hope you are well, and I would have you know that I miss you greatly—both of you. You cannot know how much your letters mean to me. But as it grows darker, and the wind smells of rain, I'd best seal this that it may go out in tomorrow's dispatches. I do feel sorry for the regulars, those miserables whose lack of rank gives them naught but a bit of rum and a bowl of beans at day's end. I at least am allowed to share the officer's mess, albeit at the far end of the table, for I am a junior and like to remain one else there is a battle.

But they are a jocular lot, these common soldiers of England. How they can go on, I know not, for while they speak often of wives and sweethearts, being uncommissioned, they never receive letters from them. I feel almost guilty when each new dispatch bag brings me word of you and my grandfather.

Until the next time, I am yr. affectionate kinsman, Chas. Kingsley.

Even as he rolled the letter up and dipped it in wax to seal it from the weather, the lightning intensified, lighting up the sky and illuminating the hot, airless plains below. The dragoon horses, tethered within a rope pen, reared and neighed, frightened by the ensuing thunder, and their handlers sought to calm them, dodging between flailing hooves, calling each by name.

It was going to be a miserable night. He ought to have told Nell how much he hated Spain, how much he hated the heat and the rain, he thought morosely, but he did not want to burden her again. No doubt she was already sick of hearing about the place.

"Here."

He looked up, surprised to see the earl standing over him, a canteen in his hands. Despite the dusty earth, Longford dropped down on his haunches, and unscrewed the cap. "Port," he said succinctly. "The rum's bad. Oily."

"No worse than the food, which tastes like day-old oatmeal." Nonetheless, Charles proffered his cup. "My thanks, my lord."

"It's going to come a hell of a rain," the earl offered.

It occurred to Charles that in his own way, perhaps Longford himself was lonely. He moved over, giving him room beneath the tilted canvas. "It's all of a piece, isn't it? Only choice is between the heat and the flies—or the mud and the worms. You'd think they'd drown, wouldn't you?—the worms, I mean, but they come forth in hordes every time it rains. Ground's full of 'em."

"You ought to have taken the supply train," Lucien tried again. "There's as much honor in seeing we are fed as in taking a ball on the field."

Charles stared at the flickering sky, then shook his head. "I'm a dragoon—not a sentry."

Longford took a deep swig from his canteen. "You make me a liar, you know—I promised Lady Kingsley I'd see you stayed in the rear. She would have you safe."

"It wasn't her place to ask—nor yours to give, was it?"

"No. But I thought you might wish to know of her concern for you." His black eyes met Charles's blue ones soberly. "Some things might be worth staying alive for."

Charles was silent for several seconds, then he nodded, sighing, "Devil of a coil, ain't it?—a man waiting for his own grandfather to die. Makes you think less of me, don't it?"

"No. There are times I wish my father had perished sooner," Lucien admitted." He looked away, his expression distant. "Blood can make unreasonable demands on us."

"If he treated her right, I could stand the wait." When Longford did not respond, the boy sighed again. "Sometimes I think I hate him, you know—and that ain't right."

"I don't know—I cannot say I felt much for my father after my mother died," Lucien admitted.

"Mad Jack?" Charles asked incredulously. "But he was—I mean, everybody knew—" He stopped. "Guess it ain't right to ask why."

"Honor. Without a man's honor, he's damned—and Jack left none." Longford looked down to the plains. "I wonder what Marmont means to do?" he asked softly.

"He ain't going to do nothing," Charles responded, disgusted. "We are going to sit here looking at each other until one side goes home."

Lucien shook his head. "The French put too much stock in glory. I should be surprised if they let us retreat unscathed. Marmont will want to posture before Napoleon, and how is he to do that if we go?"

"Damme if I don't wish for the fight," Charles muttered. "Better'n sitting here getting ate by fleas. Been praying for it ever since I got here."

Longford took another pull on his canteen, then wiped his mouth with his scarlet coat sleeve. "It was the only thing of worth Mad Jack ever told me—'be careful what you ask for, boy, else you might get it'—though it was said in a different context, as I recall."

"M'father died when I was in short coats." Charles hesitated, then blurted out, "What was he like? Mad Jack, I mean."

Lucien's jaw worked visibly, and for a moment, Charles did not think he meant to answer. "Sorry—ain't my business, is it?"

"No." Lucien squared his shoulders, then stared into a jagged ridge of lightning. "He was as big a bastard as I am."

"But you ain't—"

His words were drowned in a sudden, howling wind that brought a volley of rain. The earl muttered a curse, then rose.

"Going to be a mire on the morrow," he said. He hesitated as though he would say more, then clasped Charles's shoulder. "I hope you don't get your wish, you know—I'd not fight in this."

He was gone as abruptly as he'd come, leaving Charles to stare after him. He'd said the wrong thing, and he knew it. It seemed that as much as he wanted to know Longford, as much as he admired him, he never knew what to say to him. But he was not alone—no one claimed any great degree of friendship with the man—not even his batman.

The wind caught the tattered canvas, ripping it from its rickety poles, blowing toward the smoldering, smoking coals of the fire set to ward off the pests. Charles lunged for it, then struggled against the sheet of rain to fold it beneath his arm. The sky poured now, soaking the stinking wool serge, the linen underneath, and the blanket he'd folded for his bed. There was no sense even trying to reset his tent.