Charlotte Louise Dolan (9 page)

“Oh,” Dorie blurted out, “that sounds like the
creche
that is described in my French book. Did they have figures of the Magi and the shepherds?”

“And angels and sheep and oxen and every imaginable profession was represented, from a baker with loaves of bread to a shoemaker with the tiniest shoes imaginable.”

He could not tell them the rest. Months later their army had come through that province again, and he had ridden several miles out of the way to visit the family who had so generously shared the little they had with him in the true spirit of Christmas. Nothing had remained of the farmhouse but a burned-out shell, and there was no sign of a living being—no crops growing in the fields, no goats waiting to be milked, no chickens scratching in the dirt. Walking through the ruins, he had found a small tin angel, once gilded but now blackened by the flames. Somehow for him it represented all the children and old people killed or left homeless, all the women violated by marauding armies, all the homes and churches and schools destroyed ...

“The vicar here had the opportunity, years ago, to accompany the scion of an illustrious family on his grand tour.”

Darius was abruptly brought back to the present and looked up to see his wife speaking serenely to Dorie, as if she had not noticed his abstraction. But he knew she had, and he resolved to make an even greater effort to keep all thoughts of the war out of his mind for the duration of his visit—to pretend that Napoleon did not exist, and that there was truly peace on earth and goodwill among all men.

“Reverend Goodridge reports that in Germany they have the quaint custom of cutting an entire evergreen tree and bringing it into the house. They decorate the branches with all manner of ornamentation, such as paper flowers and glass birds, gilded nuts, and dozens of lighted candles.”

Dorie leapt to her feet, her excitement almost palpable. “Oh, Beth, could we do that? Oh, please, it would be vastly entertaining.” At her cousin’s smiling shake of the head, Dorie turned to him. “Darius, help me persuade her, oh, please do!”

He shook his head also. “I can think of few things less desirable than waking up Christmas morning to find the house burned down around our ears.”

“There is another interesting custom on the Continent,” Elizabeth continued, refusing to give ear to Dorie’s repeated pleas. “The children are encouraged to set out their shoes on Christmas Eve, and Father Christmas is supposed to fill them with treats. In some countries I believe he is called St. Nicholas.”

“Oh, Beth, wouldn’t you adore to spend Christmas in Paris? If only that awful Napoleon would go back to Corsica and leave the rest of the world to get along perfectly well without him.”

There was a dead silence in the room, and Dorie blushed when she realized she had mentioned the forbidden subject. She sneaked a peak at him, and Darius took pity on her youth.

“But then you would have to give up wassail parties and plum pudding. I believe one of the foods the French traditionally eat on Christmas Eve is snails, or so I have been told.”

“Snails? Ugh! I don’t think I should like that kind of Christmas at all.”

* * * *

“Lady Letitia, may I present my husband, Captain St. John?”

“Delighted to meet you, Captain. I have been wanting to talk to you ever since I spotted your uniform in this crowd. Sit down here by me and tell me how Wellington means to beat that little corporal.”

Beside him Elizabeth sucked in her breath sharply, but Darius was more than willing to accede to the old lady’s request. So far she was the first person he had been introduced to who had not frozen him with chilling politeness.

Seating himself in the proffered chair, he turned to Lady Letitia and encountered eyes that seemed vaguely familiar.

“Stop hovering, Elizabeth. I shall not damage your handsome soldier. If he can survive the French bullets, he has nothing to fear from my tongue.”

He was saved from having his wife make another futile attempt to “rescue” him, because the squire appeared at that moment and bore her off to dance with him.

“Now, then, Captain, tell me truthfully, who is the better general, Wellington or that upstart Corsican?”

“To be sure, madam, if I knew that, I could make my fortune.”

“Then you think we may be pushed out of Spain?”

“Ah, I did not say that. The duke is definitely a better tactician than Soult or Marmont.”

“But the French generals have more men under their command, and with their population four times that of ours, they have the ability to replace their losses faster than we can.”

“In Spain those large armies are their biggest liability. Napoleon has made a tactical error of such magnitude, it will in the end bring about his downfall. His greatest enemy on the peninsula is Spain itself.”

“Bah, do not try to convince me that the Spanish army is anything but a bothersome nuisance to the French.”

“Again you are putting words into my mouth,” Darius said with a smile, liking this old lady better than anyone else he had met in Somerset. “I said nothing about the Spanish army; I said Spain. Napoleon has assumed that his vast armies can live off the land.”

“And the Spanish refuse to sell him the necessary food?”

“He does not worry about such niceties as paying for what his soldiers take. He has assumed, simply, that his armies will take by force whatever they need, and therein lies his error.”

“In what way has he miscalculated?”

“Why, ma’am, he has not properly studied his geography. It is the land itself that will defeat Napoleon.”

Lady Letitia gave a bark of laughter. “You are saying the food is not there for the taking.”

“Indeed, Spain is a poor country; in the best of times she barely raises enough to feed her own population. She has no stores set aside in case of droughts or plagues of locusts. And the French army is itself a plague of epic proportions; the soldiers not only steal the food whenever they find it, but also kill off all the livestock, leaving none for breeding. In addition they burn the barns and fields and drive off the peasants, who then become ardent partisans, harassing the French flanks like pesky horseflies.”

“And what of Wellington?”

“Ah, Wellington pays in gold for the food he receives from the Spanish and Portuguese, but it is Wellington’s supply trains that will win Spain for him. The only way Napoleon could defeat us in Spain would be to cut our lines of supply, and that he will never do so long as the British lion rules the seas.”

“So tell me, did you take part in the battle at Albuera? I am interested in hearing what tactics Beresford used against Soult.”

They continued to talk of battles and strategy while the party swirled around them, the laughter ebbing and flowing, punctuated by an occasional squeal when some young person was caught standing under the mistletoe.

Darius was at first amazed at the old lady’s wit and then impressed by the speed with which she grasped the essentials and was finally moved to compliment her.

“Madam, I regret sincerely that you do not have a position of authority in the War Office. I have spent days trying in vain to explain to some of the old men there what you have understood in an instant.”

“Do not think that I have not had similar thoughts on occasion. I have enough summers behind me now to accept my role in society, but as a young girl, I would have sold my soul to the devil to have been born a man.” She paused and looked at him, as if checking to see if he were shocked, but then proceeded with a faraway look in her eyes. “I would have made a dandy general, and with me in charge, we would undoubtedly not have lost the colonies. Or perhaps I would have been an admiral and discovered new lands for England. But,” she added briskly, “I have long ago accepted the restrictions society places on women and have still had more than enough adventures to fill one lifetime.”

“Then I believe it is your turn to tell the stories, and my turn to be the avid listener.”

“Are you sure you have the courage? My activities are fearsome enough to make the strongest man quake in his boots.”

“Do you then cast spells? Are you like the weird sisters in
Macbeth?”

“A witch? Pshaw! I am much more dangerous than any of that sisterhood. I, my dear Captain, am an inveterate matchmaker—and a highly successful one at that. Bachelors have been known to faint when I so much as glanced at them.”

There was much humor and great intelligence in the look she gave him, and he realized suddenly of whom her eyes reminded him—Wellington himself. He was about to comment on that fact when they were interrupted by an exceedingly plump dowager encased in puce satin, a most unfortunate choice. With reluctance Darius politely took his leave of Lady Letitia and retired to stand by the windows.

“I see you have made the acquaintance of my
grandmère.”

Darius turned to face a dazzling display of finery, all of it decorating the person of a man of slender build and less-than-average height. From the top of his pomaded locks to the tips of his shiny Hessians, which sported tassels the size of clothes brushes, he was every inch the London dandy. He was roughly of Darius’s age, and he looked as out of place at the squire’s party as a Spanish guerrilla would have, had he appeared with a musket in his hands and bandoleers crisscrossing his chest. The man’s neckcloth was tied too high to permit him to turn his head, his yellow jacket was nipped in at the waist and worn over a purple waistcoat embroidered all over with pearls. It required only the chartreuse unmentionables to complete the picture of sartorial splendor, and Darius could only be thankful the dandy did not also affect a lisp.

“Edmund Stanier at your service,” the stranger stated, holding out his hand.

“Captain St. John,” Darius responded, shaking the other man’s soft hand briefly.

“Please excuse my lack of manners in introducing myself, but as you have undoubtedly noticed, this party is being run in the most slipshod manner imaginable. But what can one expect when one is so far from civilization?”

Darius watched the people enjoying the party wholeheartedly—the schoolroom misses dancing with grandfathers who were surprisingly spry and light on their feet, the young ladies flirting with the young bucks, matrons gossiping in the corners and ignoring their nine- and ten-year-old sons who were darting through the crowd with reckless abandon ...

Far from wishing he were in London, he wished he could so easily abandon his inhibitions and join the fun. But he had not been made to feel welcome, not by anyone except one remarkable old lady.

“So, Lady Letitia is your grandmother?”

“Yes, and it is only the thought of her lovely money going to one of her other grandchildren that has induced me to accompany her to such an out-of-the-way place.”

“She is not from his area?”

“God forbid. We are visiting one of her nieces now, of which Grandmère has an unending supply. She is planning her campaign already. I believe this Season she means to present one grandniece, a second cousin twice removed, and her second husband’s godson’s eldest daughter.”

“Her second husband?”

“You have not heard of Lady Letitia?” The dandy surveyed Darius from top to toe. “Oh, I suppose you are one of those who is involved in that mess over in Spain. Well, Grandmère  has been married four times. The first was to my grandfather, Viscount Westhrop, by whom she had four sons. The second time was to a Mr. Newbold, the third time to Mr. Amerdythe, and the fourth time to Mr. Morrough. In all, she has been widowed four times, and her last three husbands had nothing to recommend them except their wealth. Would you believe, her third husband was in trade! Well, I ask you!”

The dandy looked up at Darius as if expecting some reply, so Darius made a little murmur, which could be interpreted any way the other man desired.

“To be sure, it is indeed a stroke of good fortune that they all three left their money to Grandmère, but what is scandalous is that they left her in total control of it, with no man to supervise how she spends it or whom she leaves it to.”

Having talked with Lady Letitia, it sounded to Darius as if her three wealthy husbands had also been endowed with uncommon good sense.

“The crux of the problem is that she also has too many grandchildren to choose her heir from. I have even considered allowing her to find me a wife, to see if that might tip the scales in my favor. But suppose it failed to turn her up sweet? Then I would be harnessed for life with nothing to show for it. Are you married?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes. My wife is the one dancing with the vicar.”

“Ah, yes, a handsome woman. Pity about the scar.”

The remark itself was innocuous, but at the mention of the scar, everything fell into place for Darius—the hostility of the servants, the villagers’ aloofness, the cold shoulder he had received from the gentlefolk at the party. In a flash of insight he understood the cause of everyone’s harsh rejection of him, and he knew on whose shoulders the entire blame rested.

Ignoring the continued babbling of the man beside him, who seemed somehow to have gotten the impression that Darius was dying to know all the latest London gossip, he waited only until the music stopped before claiming his wife for the next dance. He made himself smile as charmingly as she did, but inside he was seething.

That he had once again been caught out by the duplicity of a woman. It did not bear thinking about. All the time he had been lulled by her beauty and gentleness into letting down his guard, she had been gossiping behind his back, telling her sordid little tale of curricle races and broken engagements. There was no doubt in his mind but that she had given herself the role of pitiful heroine in her recitals and cast him in the role of villain.

He looked down into eyes that were warm and glowing, and he marveled at how guileless she appeared. Only women were capable of such treachery. They had no pride, no honor, and they were willing to go to any lengths to gain attention and sympathy, which they would then use to manipulate the men around them.

How could he have forgotten, even momentarily?