Carla Kelly (12 page)

“Nay, nay, that’s not it, Major,” Allenby said. “I’m just trying to remember if it was before Baddyhof or after.”

Nez let out his breath slowly, and sucked on the almond stick.

“It was after,” Allenby said, his tone decisive. “I know it was, because Tom told me later how she got the Nineteen out of a jam.

“Really?”

“Yes. If I remember, the Nineteen had gone with Hill’s Division, and Picton took us after Soult.”

“He did. Do go on.”

“Tom told me later, they were having the devil of a time finding a reliable interpreter. Oh, we had Spanish women aplenty with us, and so did the Nineteen.” He looked at the open door. “Mary Ann don’t know about those women.”

“My lips are sealed, Private.”

“Tom said none of ’um could speak English. His major was trying to get directions, and no one could help him. He said that a girl sitting by a spot where the road forked came forward and translated. He said her English was beautiful.”

It is, he thought. “A girl?”

Allenby shrugged. “That’s what Tom said. Said she was young, any road.” He put his hand to his head. “And she had them torn-up ears like the women in Baddyhof.” He looked away. “You know.”

“I know.”

“And he said her dress was bloody. God, Major, I hate to think about it again!”

“I hate to ask you, but I have to know,” he said quietly.

“For some reason, Tom didn’t know why, Sergeant Carr took her along. He plunked her on top of a caisson and took her along.” He leaned forward. “I remember this because Tom was so surprised. Sergeant Carr was older and quiet-like, not the sort of man who would pick up a drab. Not at all.”

“Older?”

“Yes, he was. I remember that. I guess he was forty at least. Maybe older.” He shrugged. “Maybe she reminded him of his daughter somewhere, if he had one.” He chuckled. “Of course, Tom said in a few months she was wearing her apron high, so I guess she didn’t remind the Sergeant of his daughter!”

Nez put down the almond stick. Think how many women were wearing their aprons high after the troops got through at Badajoz, he thought, some of them my troops, damn me. “I don’t suppose anyone in the Nineteen joked about her in front of the battery sergeant.”

“Oh, no! As I remember it, Tom said she was a good ’un. Never complained, and really useful, because her French was as good as her English. He said she got them out of some serious scrapes.” He looked at the ceiling again. “And that’s all I remember Tom telling me.”

“Do you remember her name?”

He shook his head. “Amos said in the letter it was Liria Valencia, but I don’t remember Tom calling her that.” He paused. “It was something else, maybe a nickname. Let me think a minute.”

Take years if you want, Nez thought, only please remember. Unable to sit still any longer, he went to the window, and was rewarded with a view, two buildings over, of the inn’s stable yard and necessaries.

“I remember. You’ll laugh. Sergeant Carr called her
La Duquesa.
”

“What?” Nez demanded, startled.

“Well, Tom thought it was funny, and that’s how I remember at all. He told me, ‘Sergeant Carr must think she’s royalty.’ We had a good laugh. I mean there she was, a camp follower with the Nineteen—a pretty, serene thing to be sure—but you know camp followers, Major.”

“Serene?”

“Oh, it’s odd, but Tom told me that’s what he remembered. ‘She’s calm like the battery sergeant,’ he told me.” He shrugged. “And that’s all I know.” He stood up, too, and joined Nez at the window. “That’s also why I didn’t write you. You can tell I didn’t know anything to tell you. Sorry, Major.”

“You never heard what might have been her real name?” he persisted, wondering now why he was bothering a man who was obviously busy. “You know the Spanish have so many names.”

Allenby grinned. “Almost as many as you dukes, begging your pardon, sir.”

“Oh, well hit, Allenby! My housekeeper’s boy is named Juan. Does that set off any bells? Did Tom ever mention the baby?”

Allenby was silent again, and Nez knew better than to interrupt.

“He did mention the baby, mainly because when I . . . well, when I slipped away once to see Tom, the baby had just been born. It was January. It struck him funny that La Duquesa had demanded—and she never demanded anything—that the boy be baptized.” He grinned. “Apparently it was the only time she ever raised her voice to the battery sergeant, and he got permission from his major to stop long enough to have the baby christened.”

“Why would that have interested your brother enough to tell you?” Nez asked, puzzled.

“Somebody in the Nineteen had started a wager that the baby was the sergeant’s and out of curiosity they went to the christening, just to find out what they named him. He was christened Juan Mora y Valencia. I don’t know how that name is spelled, but it sounded like Mora. Guess he wasn’t the sergeant’s, but Tom said you never could have guessed that, from the way Sergeant Carr carried the baby to the font.” He shook his head. “No telling what some folks will do, Major.”

“No, indeed.” Nez held out his hand to Allenby, and the man didn’t hesitate to take it this time. “Thank you for your information.”

“Wasn’t much.”

“It was more than you think,” Nez replied. “And now, if I can pay your wife for those almond sticks, I’ll let you get back to your work, Private.”

“You can try to pay her, but I doubt you’ll succeed, Major.”

Mrs. Allenby wouldn’t hear of payment. He tried, then backed off when she got a mulish look in her eyes and rested her hands on her lips. “Do me this, then, Mrs. Allenby. Send me two pounds a month of whatever you make and invoice my estate. Your husband has the direction. I think I can find you some more business in York.”

She smiled and handed him the package then. “He told me about you, Major, and how you all stood together in your square at Mont Saint Jean.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she surprised him by standing on tiptoe and kissing his cheek. “That’s from me.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Allenby,” he said, and never meant anything more.

Allenby walked him out the door and shook his hand again. “This could become a habit,” he confessed with a grin. “Pretty soon I’ll feel all democratic, like an American!” He turned serious then. “By the way, Major, I know I don’t have any long-lost relatives in Virginia.”

Nez snapped himself to attention, and Allenby did the same, “Private Allenby,” he said crisply, biting off each word. “You’re just the kind of slacker who would lose a relative! As you were now.” He laughed and turned on his heel. Well, Tony, he thought, I’m still doing small deeds. He returned to the inn, alerted the post driver, paid his bill, and was on his way back to Knare in less than fifteen minutes.

He stopped the chaise at the first mile marker on the highway, and directed the driver to take him to London first, instead of directly to Knare. Of course, I could possibly do a greater deed, he told himself as the chaise continued along the south channel road, something that might be more significant than a paltry bit of goodness here and there to my servants. Anyone can do that. “I believe I will call on the Spanish ambassador,” he murmured. “I wonder, do I have a decent enough outfit to meet a diplomatist? What a meddler I am.”

Chapter Ten

He couldn’t find a good suit of clothes when he arrived at Half Moon Street, which didn’t surprise him; he knew the deficiencies of his wardrobe. He thought briefly about dropping in on his friend Eustace Wiltmore, but discarded the notion almost immediately. While they were of similar height and build, a visit to Eustace would require endless explanation that he was not prepared to provide.

“Pomeroy, what should I do?” he asked the footman who ran his residence when Luster was elsewhere. Pomeroy, who seemed to have scarcely recovered from the shock of the sudden descent, gave the matter his attention. “Your Grace, I believe that when all else fails, the employment of a well-brushed and bemedaled uniform is considered unexceptionable.”

“That’s a good notion, Pomeroy,” Nez said. “I have resigned my commission, but the ambassador of Spain probably will not be aware of that.” He looked around the Yellow Saloon with real pleasure. Mama’s faux Egyptian antiquities had been replaced by elegant tables, and sofas that looked almost comfortable enough to sit upon. The walls were now a soft blue. “We shall have to rename this room,” he said, “and high time. Well-done, Pomeroy.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, it was a pleasure.”

He went upstairs with Pomeroy, admiring the lighter draperies, the clever use of cornice-like railings to display Mama’s collection of ceramic roses. His room, however, was much as he had left it, which made him positively giddy. Thank goodness no one had fiddled with his combination of cast-offs from other eras, and the bed that sagged in all the right places.

But there were more important matters at hand, considering that he had ridden long and late to get to London. “Pomeroy, do you think I should send a note ’round to the Spanish embassy to let them know I will be dropping by, or should I just pop in?”

“The Spanish embassy?” Pomeroy repeated.

“Yes, indeed. I have a matter to discuss with the ambassador,” he said patiently.

“The ambassador?”

“Pomeroy, you are repeating me,” he said. “Luster would never do that.”

His mild criticism caused Pomeroy to draw himself together. “Your Grace, as pleased to see you as I trust the ambassador will be, I would not advise popping in. It may be that the Spanish are funny about that. I should recommend a note of some sort.”

“So would I,” Nez agreed. “Maybe I could use a secretary after all. Too bad I do not have one. Pomeroy, a pen and paper, if you please.” The note took little time. “I believe ‘Your Excellency, I wish to see you as soon as possible on a matter of some importance,’ about covers the subject,” he read to Pomeroy when he had finished and blotted the sheet. He signed his name carefully, folded the note, and fixed on a seal with the family crest. “It’s nice, at times like this, to be pretentious,” he told his footman. “Please see that this is delivered to the Spanish embassy.”

Pomeroy placed the document on a silver tray. “Your Grace, have you any idea where the Spanish embassy is located?”

“Of course not. That is your job, Pomeroy,” Nez replied, seeking for more serenity than he felt. “I can’t help but note that Luster would never have asked such a question. I recommend that you wait for a reply, once you locate the building. Look upon this as an opportunity to consider London in a whole new light.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Pomeroy murmured, and withdrew from the room, a portrait of studied irritation or contrition. Nez observed that it was hard to tell with Pomeroy. How I miss my butler, he thought, and the secretary I should have, and the valet I have not yet stirred myself to hire. He had a happy thought: If I propose to Audrey immediately when I return to Knare, I can have someone available at all times to manage me.
She
will get me a secretary and a valet. Why should I plague Luster forever?

He was asleep when Pomeroy returned, but woke quickly to his knock. “Come in.” He eyed the tray with a note on it in Pomeroy’s hand. “It appears to me that you located the embassy. Well done. Just out of idle curiosity, may I ask how?”

Pomeroy permitted himself a tiny smile. “Your Grace, I hailed a hack and told the driver—a scurvy-looking man—to take me to the Spanish embassy. Simple.”

“Excellent! And now, what is the news?” He took the message and opened it. “Well, well! I can come at my leisure this very afternoon. So I shall, Pomeroy. You say you know where my uniform is?”

“Indeed, Your Grace, although I fear it will give off a strong odor of camphor.”

“That is scarcely a difficulty,” he replied, getting up. “As I remember, Spanish cologne is extremely powerful. I doubt anyone at the embassy will notice my puny contribution.”

To his amazement, the uniform still fit. He couldn’t help but admire the contrast of the handsome gold trim with the red and white. How kind of the Portuguese and Spanish to be so generous in awarding medals to us Englishmen, he thought as he looked at himself in the mirror. While Pomeroy and one or two of the maids who had gathered outside his open door watched, Nez took the Waterloo Medal from its case and held it up to the light by its ribbon. “I never thought to wear this, Pomeroy,” he said, his voice soft. “At least not until in my coffin, hopefully years from now.”

“Your Grace, do you plan to be buried in uniform?” Pomeroy asked.

“Oh, no.” He ran his finger over the raised image on the medal. “But I want this medal in the coffin with me. Pomeroy, I earned it. Help me get it straight, now.”

He went downstairs into the Yellow Saloon to wait for his carriage. Magnificent room, he thought. He looked at the mantelpiece and smiled. “I’m grateful that no one removed the cup,” he said to his footman.

“Luster told us to leave it alone.”

He went to the fireplace and picked up Amos Yore’s battered tin cup that he had placed there nearly a year ago to remind him that he was a civilized man. Tony, I am thinking of others, he told himself. He handed the cup to Pomeroy. “Put this with my saddlebags. I do not anticipate that I will spend much time in future here, and I want that at Knare with me.” He looked out the window. “And here I go, Pomeroy. Do send word to the stables to prepare my chaise for the return to Knare. I intend to leave early tomorrow, and sleep on the way back.”

He slept on the way to the Spanish embassy, too, worn ragged from constant days of travel. It was only when the carriage slowed and then stopped outside the iron gate, that he woke. Well, the Spaniards understand the value of location, he thought as he noted Kensington Palace Gardens through the trees.

He announced himself in the entrance hall and didn’t even have time to admire the beautiful portrait of the
Madonna and Child
—surely it was by Zurbarán—before the ambassador himself came into the hall. He took Nez’s hand in his, a gesture of such equality that Nez felt himself relax.

“
Vuestra Merced,
I am Jaime Gonzales Almeida, the Duke of Montressor y Calatrava,” he said in a voice obviously used to command. “I believe that my son served with you in the Burgos campaign. Diego Almeida, el Conde Lucar?”

“My God,” Nez said simply. “I never met a braver man. I can only wish our encounter with Soult and Marmont had produced a better outcome. Please accept my sympathies, Duke, even so long after the event.”

The duke bowed. “He was a noble son.
Que lástima
that the god of war has no children and feels no pity.” He came closer. “You, sir. You are still in the army? I would hardly be surprised, but why are you yet a major? From what Diego wrote me from time to time, your talents were ample.”

Nez smiled. “I resigned my commission after Waterloo, and only wore this uniform to impress the Spanish ambassador! Your son would have appreciated that. As I recall, his wardrobe was almost as careless as mine.”

“Then, you were brothers under the skin, Duke.”

“Please call me Benedict,” Nez said. “Diego always did.”

The ambassador indicated a door. “Let us go into the garden, Benedict. This is far too fine a day to be indoors. Since you are merely Major Nesbitt, who does not stand on ceremony, it will be suitable.”

It was. He thought of Liria, and her comment about Spanish courtyards as the duke led him through the door and into a haven. He could hear a fountain nearby, but it was hidden among the flowers. He sat down. In another moment he was leaning forward, telling the Duke of Montressor y Calatrava what little he knew about Liria Valencia and Sergeant Carr, and the Nineteen.

“She is my housekeeper, and she has never told me anything outright about herself,” he concluded. “All that I have told you is surmise and conjecture on my part. I could be completely wrong in all aspects, but, Duke, the way she carries herself!”

The ambassador made a graceful gesture with his hand. “Benedict, you know Spanish women—even the most common is a queen in her own eyes.”

“I do not argue that.”

The duke was silent a moment. “Do you know her name, beyond Valencia? You mention orange groves and horses, but, sir, I have those. Most of us from the south do.”

Nez stood and stretched. He walked to the end of the tiled patio, following the sound of the water, until he saw the source, a small fountain that was curved like a baptismal font. “That’s it,” he said, turning back to his host. “I forgot to mention it. According to one of my former soldiers, Liria’s son was baptized Juan Mora y Valencia. I do not know how to spell that but . . .”

“. . . I do,” exclaimed the duke, rising quickly. “M-O-U-R-A.” He clapped his hands together, his eyes lively. Nez could hardly look at the father without remembering his son, his enthusiasm cut short by a shot from the walls of Burgos. “The Mouras of Las Invernadas. It is east of Bailen, maybe closer to Torreperogil, and that was just the main estate. He owned . . . Well, never mind that!”

“Moura?” Nez asked, puzzled at the ambassador’s sudden energy.

“Lad, he was a
grande
of Spain,” Almeida said. “The only man who outranks a
grande
is the king. I would say you have quite a housekeeper.”

“I believe I’ll sit down,” Nez sat, and returned to his bench. “La Duquesa,” he murmured.

“Your Sergeant Carr obviously took a few secrets to his grave, Benedict. Maybe she told him more than she told you, or maybe he guessed.” The ambassador resumed his seat. “I will tell you more.” He rubbed his hands together. “The old man was an
afrancesado.
Do you know the term?”

Benedict nodded, leaning forward again, this time not so much to talk, but to listen. “Didn’t they want Spain to ally with Napoleon?”

“They did, damn them to perdition.” Almeida leaned back and sighed heavily. “And yet I can see why. You have campaigned in Spain. You know better than most how backward my country is, how superstitious its people are. Don’t be shy to admit it.”

“I know.” Nez rubbed his forehead. “I once saw a woman stoned for witchcraft.”

“Only one? You are fortunate,” the ambassador said dryly. “There were those among us—Moura most prominent—who wanted closer ties with Europe. They learned English and French, and drilled their children in these languages and customs.” He shrugged. “In truth, we have had poor kings of late. Fernando may have been better than his miserable father, but he was ripe for destruction, and Napoleon was not a man to shirk an opportunity.” He clapped his hands together again. “And who was the first to ally himself with José Buonaparte when he was placed on our throne but the
Grande
of Moura y Valencia?”

“Liria’s father?”

“The very same, if your housekeeper is who you think she is. Tell me, Benedict, is she a small woman, with a creamy skin, deep eyes, and a beautiful mouth?”

He nodded.

“A family trait.”

Nez shifted on the bench. “But, sir, she made a reference to her family and said she was dead to them. I don’t understand.”

“That is the pain of civil war, lad. The duke had two sons and three daughters. One of the daughters, now dead, was married to a most inflexible man, but a patriot nonetheless. One of the sons was an
afrancesado,
and the other was loyal to Fernando. Napoleon ripped that family in half. The only one alive that I know of is the present
grande.
You would probably call him a duke.”

“And the other two daughters you mentioned?”

“Young, sir, very young, at the time Buonaparte seized the throne, and still in the care of their father, who practically raised them to be more French than the French. No one knows what happened to them. We do know the old duke died during that final siege of Badajoz, but the girls vanished, poof! Like that!” He snapped his fingers. “From what you suspect, Liria became a victim when the town was sacked.” He looked hard at Nez. “There was no need for you British to sack the town, sir.”

“I know,” Nez said quietly. “I am ashamed for my part in letting my men do what they wanted. It is something I must live with, I suppose.”

The ambassador leaned forward and touched Nez on the knee. “There are some who believe war is glorious. I think they have not been to war, eh?”

The subject was too uncomfortable, so Nez changed it. “What could have happened to make Liria flee the country with the English? Where is her sister?”

“I think that is for you to find out.” The ambassador rose, and Nez knew his interview was over. “It may be that she chooses not to tell you. I have heard much of Badajoz. Very bad things.”

“They are all true, Your Excellency.” He bowed and left the ambassador in the garden. In the main entrance, he spent a long moment contemplating the Zurbarán and wondering about the pull that Spain continued to exert on him.

The servant had opened the door for him that led out to Peel Street when he heard the ambassador’s voice. “
Un momentito,
Benedict!” He waited for the ambassador.

“I was remiss, Benedict. Let me suggest this to you: it is the time of the month when I send dispatches to Spain. Do you wish to compose a letter to the present
Grande
of Moura? You could tell him all that you have told me.”

“Do you think he will want to know about that side of his family?”

The ambassador shrugged. “Who can say? A letter from you will give him the opportunity to decide. If he chooses to ignore it, what have you lost?”