Charlotte Louise Dolan (12 page)

“I can read it. I’m to report to the War Office tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Hah! I was right. Nine o’clock.” Colwell pushed himself away from the wall and staggered slightly before regaining his equilibrium. “Well, must be off. Got someone waiting. A real cuddly armful. Prettier than old Borthy, too. Sorry I can’t stay. Enjoyed our talk, St. John. Have to get together again sometime. Not now. Can’t keep the ladies waiting. Said so yourself. Give my regards to your wife.” The lieutenant walked with great deliberation toward the stairs.

Darius could understand well the feelings that had caused kings in earlier days to kill the messengers who brought them news of defeat. He found himself wishing strongly that Colwell would take a header down the stairs.

Maybe he could simply act as if the lieutenant had not found him? It was debatable whether on the morrow Colwell would be in any condition to remember delivering the message. On the other hand, Munke, if asked, would swear in all sincerity that no one had brought them any messages, so it would be the word of two men against one.

It would be so easy just to act as if he hadn’t received the message—so easy just to gallop hell-bent back to Oakhaven. For all he knew, Lord Borthwell just wanted to tell him that there would be a few more days’ delay.

It was an idle dream, he finally admitted to himself. He was a soldier, and duty came first. Folding the offending piece of paper, Darius stuck it in his pocket.

Unfortunately, it was harder to put away his thoughts of Christmas feasts, but he reminded himself that there had been times on the Peninsula when he would have given a month’s wages for a bit of bread and cheese, and at least he had a bottle of good brandy to wash it down with.

The brandy, when he shared it with Munke, had no effect on his memories of his wife and did nothing to eradicate the guilt he felt at the way he had treated her. Her only crime, after all, had been to express her desire to spend Christmas with him, a desire with which he was wholeheartedly in agreement.

* * * *

Mr. Leverson struggled to conceal his dismay as he listened to the words of his client. “But, Captain St. John, do please reconsider. Are you absolutely certain that you do not wish to put some kind of restriction on the bequest to your wife? It is conceivable, you know, since she is still quite young, that if you ... that is to say, she might ...” He floundered, not knowing how to put it delicately, that the captain’s life expectancy was rather tenuous. “In the unfortunate event that you were—”

“In case I am blown to kingdom come by a French cannon-ball, my wife has every right to remarry.”

The young man’s eyes were so cold that the solicitor could not totally repress a shiver. If Wellington had many officers such as this, then Napoleon was as good as defeated. “But might you not wish to make provisions for a child or children? Your wife might already possibly ...” Again, he was getting into dangerous waters, since he had no idea if this man had even been near his wife in months, and he might inadvertently be implying that the man’s wife was unfaithful. “That is to say, in the event that you have issue, would you not wish—”

“If my wife is with child, I trust her implicitly to put the interests of my son or daughter above those of her own.”

Trust, yes, that was the answer. “Might I suggest then, that you put the money in trust? Appoint a man to look after—”

“I regret that I have not been able to make my wishes perfectly clear.”

The tone of his voice was ominous, and it was brought home to Mr. Leverson quite forcibly that if the Duchess of Colthurst were to have a daughter, this man sitting opposite him would be the tenth Duke of Colthurst. Did his duty as a lawyer to point out all the legal ramifications of a will include alienating a potential duke and taking the chance that an account that had been handled for eighty-seven years to the full satisfaction of all parties might be lost to the firm?

Across from him the captain abruptly rose to his feet and turned toward the door. Mr. Leverson immediately leapt up also, desperately determined to recover from his own gross mishandling of this affair. “Then, as it appears you are sure how you wish the will to be drawn up ...”

The captain paused and slowly turned back to face him. The prayers racing desperately through Mr. Leverson’s mind were apparently going to be answered. He was going to be given another chance.

“I am leaving for Portugal in two hours. I shall return here in one. That should give you ample time to draw up such a simple will. To reiterate, I wish for my batman to receive five hundred pounds, and everything else of which I die possessed is to go to my wife, with no strings attached—no trusts, no guardians, no restrictions of any kind whatsoever. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, your G ... uh, I mean, I understand perfectly, Captain St. John.” Oh, wait until his wife heard about this insane document, he thought, watching the departing officer. He would not, of course, tell her everything. She had no need, after all, to know how perilously close he had come to losing a potential duke.

And perhaps this evening at the Bear and Hounds, he would venture to wager a guinea that the duchess would have a girl. One should, after all, support one’s own client’s interests at all times and on all occasions.

There was a light tap on the door, and then Dorie opened it and peered around the edge. “Are you feeling any better today, Beth? I have smuggled you up some hot chocolate. You must be revolted at the mere sight of beef broth and restorative pork jelly by now.”

“I appreciate your concern, Dorie, but I have told you time and again to stay out of my room and let Maggie take care of me. Why are you so stubborn? All I need now is for you to get the influenza, too.” Elizabeth slowly pushed herself up in bed. Her head began pounding, of course, but not as unmercifully as it had the day before. Maybe she was going to live? Actually, today for the first time she felt as if that would be a good thing.

Carrying a tray, Dorie approached the bed, the struggle to keep a smile off her face so blatant, that Elizabeth was instantly suspicious.

“All right, Miss Dorinda Donnithorne, what mischief have you been up to while I’ve been lying here useless in bed? Confess. Is Cook ready to resign? Is the stable burned down? Is the squire on his way over with a warrant to transport you?”

“Beth, how can you suggest such things? Why, I have been as good as gold and have done nothing while you were sick but read improving sermons and ... and ...” Her attempts to look pious failed, and she let out a giggle. Setting the tray down on the bedside table, she helped arrange the pillows behind Elizabeth’s back.

“Would you like your hot chocolate now? Or would you rather read the letter from Captain St. John first?”

Elizabeth felt her heart stop for a moment, then resume beating. “A letter from Darius?”

“Perhaps we should check with the doctor first before we give it to you? After all, too much excitement might cause a relapse.” Dorie picked up a letter from the tray and held it just out of reach.

“You wretch! Give me the letter at once, or I shall ...” Elizabeth grabbed her handkerchief and sneezed into it several times. “Or I shall undoubtedly expire on the spot,” she finished with a moan.

Dorie leaned over and hugged her. “Your attempts to look wan and pathetic have succeeded. I give in. Here is your letter. And to show you that I am now truly grown up and no longer a child, I shall leave you alone to read it in peace.”

Elizabeth hardly heard what her cousin was saying. She held the letter in her hands and stared down at the bold scrawl, the first time she had seen more of her husband’s handwriting than his signature.

Savoring every moment, she broke the seal and unfolded it.

My dear Elizabeth,

The voyage from Southampton was swift, but rather rougher than some of the soldiers might have wished. Since our arrival I have been delayed for two days in Lisbon but have put the time to good use doing some belated Christmas shopping. I am sending you a lace shawl which the Spaniards call a mantilla, and for Dorie I found some figures of the Holy Family, so she can start her own nacimiento.

The countryside around Lisbon is rather bleak at this time of year ...

Elizabeth read the letter through, then immediately read it over and over again, until she had virtually memorized every word. It was wonderful to hear from him at last, but surprisingly she felt a vague dissatisfaction.

It wasn’t enough to know what he had done and seen, she realized. Although it was nice to read about Lisbon and the shops and the people, she was more interested in her husband—in knowing know how he was. What was he thinking about? What was he feeling? What was he remembering? Even having read his letter, she had no idea if he was happy, if he was looking forward to rejoining his company, if ... if he missed her?

Although in his letter he made no mention of what had transpired between them just before his departure, it would appear he had truly forgiven her for suggesting he ignore his orders, else he would not have written at all.

On the other hand, the letter was so impersonal, it might as well have been written to his sister ... No, not to either of
his
sisters, but to a friend, perhaps.

Maybe that could be enough? She should not, after all, expect him to love her, not after the way Nicholas had coerced him into this marriage. But if they were at least friends ...

Savoring that thought, she turned the idea around in her mind, toying with the possibilities, feeling happiness swell inside her until she felt she would burst. If Darius just liked her, that would be enough; she would be forever content.

She wanted nothing more right now than to write him a long, newsy letter, omitting any mention of her present illness, of course, but she knew what Maggie would have to say if she asked for a pen and paper. With a sigh, Elizabeth slid down under the blankets and, holding the letter pressed to her heart, drifted off to sleep again.

* * * *

“My dear Elizabeth.” Darius stared down at the words, struggling against a desire to curse. But the rage inside him must not be released in a letter to his wife. He could not write, “My dear Elizabeth, Today I led the burial detail for one of my men. He was even younger than Nicholas and was shot in the stomach by a sniper. It has taken him three days of agony to die. After I have finished this letter to you, I must write to his parents and tell them how he bravely he gave his life for his country ...”

No, he could not relate such things to her. He had already subjected her to enough pain and suffering. But what else was there to say? He could not mention anything about their campaign, not even where they were bivouacked or where they had been fighting or where they would be marching to, because to give away strategic military information like that would be tantamount to treason.

The weather perhaps? “My dear Elizabeth, It has been raining for eight days now, and the mud is everywhere. We have forgotten what it feels like to be dry, and our feet have started to rot ...”

The food? “My dear Elizabeth, the last batch of the mutton we received had maggots in it, but we ate it anyway, since we had had nothing but hardtack for the two weeks previous ...”

Her brother? “My dear Elizabeth, Nicholas is fine. One of the camp followers, having lost her protector to a French bullet, is determinedly pursuing your brother with the obvious intention of securing a replacement. The odds being offered right now are seven to three that Nicholas will not succumb to her dubious charms.”

He picked up the last letter he had received from Elizabeth and reread it. As he did so, a picture formed in his mind of his wife lying beside him in bed, her honey-blond hair spread out across her pillow, her eyes drowsy from satisfied passion ...

Almost at once sounds of horses and men outside the thin walls of his tent interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to the present and the blank piece of paper lying before him. No, he could not write her and tell her how much he wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her and feel her move under him. There was nothing to be gained by sharing such feelings except more frustration.

At last he picked up his pen and began to write.

In an earlier letter I believe I mentioned that we have two men from Yorkshire in our company. They are brothers and veritable giants, but the mildest-mannered men you would ever wish to meet. Their brogue is so thick, however, it is like listening to a foreign tongue, and were it not for the fact that one of my sergeants has a mother who was originally from Yorkshire, we would find it virtually impossible to communicate with them ...

* * * *

“Oh, Dorie, the most wonderful thing. Nicholas writes that he will be in London for several days at the end of this week. He cannot come to Oakhaven, because he has meetings scheduled at the War Office, but we can certainly go there and see him.”

After several minutes with no response from her cousin, Elizabeth looked up from the letter she was perusing. Dorie was staring at the newspaper, her face white as a sheet.

“Don’t you want to go to London, my dear?”

Wordlessly her cousin turned toward her, and Elizabeth knew at once something was terribly wrong. Dorie’s eyes were huge in her face, and it seemed as if she were staring at something only she could see.

“His name is on the list,” she finally said, in a voice that was a mere whisper.

“Nicholas’s?”

Dorie shook her head, and Elizabeth dropped the letter she was holding, her heart breaking painfully in her breast. A St. John is not a coward, she thought over and over. I must be brave. I have always known this could happen. I must be brave. A St. John is not a coward. “May I see?” With great effort she finally forced the words out.

Taking the newspaper from her cousin’s lifeless hands, Elizabeth scanned the casualty lists, once, twice. “I don’t find his name here,” she said finally.

Leaning over, Dorie pointed with trembling finger to a short list at the top of the next page. “Captain St. John” was printed there.