Marrying the Royal Marine (20 page)

‘That is not possible, Mrs Junot,’ the Admiral said, and she felt her heart slide into James Rothschild’s shoes, because she knew he meant it.

‘I’ll take you to Oporto, Polly,’ Oliver said. ‘Duty is duty and no one knows that better than your husband.’

She looked at Hugh, pleaded with him with her eyes without saying a word, and saw in his glance that he felt precisely the same way, even as he agreed with her brother-in-law.

‘I must obey, Brandon,’ he told her.

They all looked at her, each man with some anxiety, and she knew why. She was a woman, weak, missish, and prone to tears. This was their world and she had intruded in it from São Jobim on. No matter how much Hugh Junot loved her, and she knew he did, he was a Marine and the world was at war.

I could cry
, she thought,
or I could be the woman my sisters have become; the woman I want to be
.

‘I know you must obey, Hugh,’ she told him. She turned to Oliver. ‘I would love to sail to Oporto with you, or even go back to Torquay and Nana, but I would like to remain here with the fleet, at least until I know what happens at Burgos.’ She looked at Admiral Popham. ‘I did learn some skills at the satellite hospital, if your surgeon might have need of them. If not, I can stay out of everyone’s way.’

‘It could be that I must remain in Burgos, or follow the guns, if we are successful, and winter in the Pyrenees,’ Hugh said tentatively.

‘Or retreat with Wellington to the lines of Torres Vedras,’ she said. ‘So be it. Just let me know, one way or the other, and I can return to Oporto on a coasting vessel.’

The men looked at each other, and then at the Admiral, whose decision it was. He removed his wig, scratched his scalp, and replaced his wig. ‘Done, madam,’ he said. ‘You may remain with the fleet here in Santander, until we know where this Marine of yours is headed.’ The Admiral chucked her under the chin. ‘I suppose I am a fool for love,’ he told her. ‘Let’s send Oliver packing, and find you a berth somewhere on this big ship, shall we?’

‘Furnish it with a bucket,’ her lover and newly licensed husband said. ‘She’s my darling, but she is no seaman.’

They laughed. Hugh took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m going now to speak with Captain Marten and find out what the duty entails.’

After he left, and before she had a moment to pine, Oliver tucked her arm in his. ‘Polly, if you won’t come aboard the
Tangier
and let me take you to Oporto, please write a letter to Laura. I will deliver it inside of a week.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I have a lot to say to her.’

It was only a brief letter, because the
Tangier
had to sail. It came from Polly’s heart, begging Laura’s pardon for doing precisely what she had counselled against, but assuring her sister that she knew her heart, even as she did and as Nana did. ‘“I trust you will come to love my husband as your brother,”’ she wrote, choosing each word with care. ‘“We will be in Plymouth at the Marine barracks, and you are always welcome in our home.”’

She showed it to Oliver, who had been given leave to relax in the Admiral’s quarters and drink the man’s Madeira. He nodded, and patted the banquette beside him.

‘I wish I could take you back to Torquay, but I understand, truly I do,’ he said, then tightened his grip on her shoulder, at the mention of his and Nana’s home. ‘I didn’t tell you the best news. Nana was confined with our son only three weeks ago. Polly, I was there. I was
there
!’

It was too much. He couldn’t say anything else. They were still sitting close together when Hugh returned to Popham’s great cabin. He sat beside her, his hand on her knee, and looked at them both. ‘Should I be suddenly afraid that my new relatives are emotional southerners?’ he asked, his Scots accent never more pronounced. ‘Oliver, does it take official wedding vows to bring out the fearful truth?’

‘Sister Polly, you have married a Marine, a Scot, and a Lieutenant Colonel,’ Oliver said solemnly. ‘I am not certain which will give you the most trouble.’

‘None of them,’ she replied. ‘I know this man’s heart.’

Chapter Twenty

S
he slept with her husband that night in quarters off the Admiral’s cabin, accustoming herself to the motion of a sleeping cot again. They lay tight as sardines, swinging gently as the ship of the line moved on its anchors. He told her of the letter he had sent with James Rothschild, requesting him to forward it through his secret channels to his brother Nathan in London. It was a request for a tidy sum from his banker to be sent through James in Paris to Lalage Cadotte in the parish of Sainte Agilbert.

‘Providence sent us the only man in Europe who could actually get that money to our Sergeant’s widow before this war ends,’ he told her. ‘We will still go and see her later, but at least we know she will soon have what we promised her husband.’

‘Bless you,’ Polly said. ‘And João at Sacred Name?’

‘He’ll come to Plymouth with us, just as we promised his mother in São Jobim, my love.’ He turned towards her, his hand inside her nightgown now. ‘Give a Marine some comfort,’ he whispered, his lips on her breast. ‘You’re my only girl in a port, and I can’t waste a moment. Time management, wife.’

Admiral Sir Home Popham and his Captain commanding kindly allowed her access to the quarterdeck, where she stood at the rail for long hours, looking south towards Burgos. She had said an appropriate farewell to her husband belowdeck as the circumspect wife of a Lieutenant Colonel should, but came above deck to watch the Marines and seamen, aided by brown-suited
guerilleros
, move three eighteen-pounders from the fleet to be used as siege cannon at Burgos. After they were out of sight, she longed to tug at the lace on Sir Home’s sleeve and demand to know how long the men would be gone. Instead, she chose discretion and kept her own counsel, as Hugh would want. She passed her nineteenth birthday alone, her mind and heart on her husband, adding his own mantle of duty to her shoulders. She was strong enough to bear the weight of it, and had not a doubt of her own courage.

To her relief, the Admiral had no intention of pulling up anchor until he knew what had happened at Burgos. The rains gave way to unexpected sleet in mid-October and a choppy anchorage, which sent her belowdeck, white-faced and trembling, to kneel over the bucket in her quarters.

Less than a week later, the detail returned, but without the cannon. Even Admiral Popham stared in surprise to see them. ‘’Pon my word, Mrs Junot,’ he said, handing her the glass and pointing. ‘There had better be an adequate explanation!’

There was, and it was delivered by one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp, looking decidedly out of place among his naval brethren. ‘The General sends his compliments, Admiral Popham. I am to tell you that he has lifted his siege and is returning to Portugal. Your guns are no longer required.’

‘Admiral, General Wellington sent his ADC to us when we were still fifty miles from Burgos,’ Hugh added. ‘He couldn’t sustain a siege and he decided it was time to retreat to Portugal.’

Popham frowned and deliberately looked all around the deck. ‘Then where, Colonel, are my flaming guns?’ He stared down his long nose at Captain Marten, his chief Marine officer on the flagship, who had accompanied the guns, too. ‘Sir? Did they take wing?’

Captain Marten blushed. ‘No, sir, not at all. Colonel Junot suggested we give them to General Espoz y Mina and his
guerilleros
, who so ably assisted us in the transport.’

‘Hmm,’ the Admiral said, returning his gaze to Hugh. ‘I trust you have an excellent reason why this was a good idea?’

‘I do, sir,’ Hugh replied, not ruffled at all by the stare from an Admiral of the fleet. ‘The rain was bogging down our own retreat, and Espoz y Mina can find good use for the guns in his operations here in León.’ He glanced at Polly and smiled. ‘Polly and I have seen him and his troops in action, sir. I think his army is worth three of any bona fide Spanish army. I take full responsibility.’

‘Good of you,’ Popham murmured, but with no malice.

‘Sir, if I may, any muskets, rifles, and materiel you have not handed over to the regular Spanish army should be given to the
guerilleros
,’ Hugh said, pressing home the point. ‘Do this, and León will be pacified before winter ends.’

Admiral Popham nodded. ‘You guarantee these ragged men can do what a Spanish army cannot?’

‘Admiral Popham, no man can guarantee that. My advice is to trust him. Espoz y Mina’s brand of hit-and-run war may become a standard of warfare, in future.’

‘I doubt that very much, Colonel,’ Popham said, after a long pause and much scrutiny of Colonel Junot, who did not squirm. ‘Care to make a wager?’

The tension on the quarterdeck vanished when Hugh gasped theatrically. ‘Not with my wife standing here, Admiral! She will give me a regular bear-garden jaw, if I gamble away my pay chit.’

‘I wouldn’t, you know,’ she told him later, when they stood on the deck of the frigate
Aurora
, which had peeled off from the fleet towards Oporto with them aboard. ‘The Admiral will think I am a shrew.’

Hugh kissed her check, and wrapped his borrowed boat cloak tighter around both of them. ‘No, no. He’s a married man, too.’ He sighed then, and gently rubbed his thumb under her breast, more for comfort, to her way of thinking, than any greater design. ‘I don’t know what I accomplished during this sojourn in the Peninsula, as far as military matters go. I have a wife—the best one imaginable—but the notes I took from all those interviews must be scattered from here to breakfast. My conclusions about the
guerilleros
will be met with scepticism—you heard the Admiral—because no one understands this kind of warfare yet.’

‘You can still write a report about that,’ she pointed out.

‘I can. I can also urge my Commandant Colonel that our Marines be used here and there among the
guerilleros
as liaison. They’ll be better than that ninny from Wellington’s army. Certainly more flexible.’ He pulled her closer. ‘Is it enough?’

‘Probably not for you,’ she said. ‘Will you be content to sit at a desk in Plymouth now and make policy?’

‘And not go gallivanting off to the Peninsula?’ He kissed her fingers. ‘Aye, Polly, dear, because I know that when I come home each night, you will be on the other side of the door.’

She had no resistance to that. After a quick scanning of the deck, she turned around in his arms and kissed him, pressing against his body so brazenly that she was glad his cloak enveloped them both.
Better get the man belowdeck and roger him royally
, she told herself. She knew that as soon as the frigate began its dance on the Atlantic rollers, she would be kneeling by that bucket again, with love a long way from her mind.

He kissed her back with some fervour, but then he sighed, and rested his chin on her head. ‘Brandon, I have to tell you something.’

‘That you love me?’

Hugh held her off a little, his face serious. ‘When we were fifty miles from Burgos, where the ADC joined us, so did El Cuchillo.’

She thought a moment, then tensed. ‘Dear God. Sister Maria Madelena’s brother?’

‘The very same. He came right up to me out of the shadows and stood practically on my shoes. What could I do? I didn’t know whether to fight or run, but then he clapped his arms on my shoulders and kissed me on each cheek.’

Hugh couldn’t help himself then. He sobbed out loud, trying to smother the sound in her hair. Polly held him closer. ‘She spared you!’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ll remind you of that whenever you need to hear it!’

She wiped his eyes, kissing his lips and neck until he could speak again.

‘That was what he told me, too, my love. We didn’t know it, but the deacon at São Jobim witnessed the whole wicked turn of events from the choir loft. He carried the tale to El Cuchillo, and it was El Cuchillo who took word to Oporto that you and I were still alive. He…he just wanted to assure me he knows the truth.’

‘Poor man,’ she murmured. ‘Did…you tell him of our plans for João?’

‘Aye, and he gave me his blessing again. Polly, I want to be a good father.’

‘You will be,’ she said, running her hand along his face, caressing him. ‘And to all our other children,’ she whispered.

‘Is that an announcement, Polly, dear?’ he asked, and he sounded so eager.

‘No. It’s just a fact,’ she said. ‘I even predict that when we get to Oporto, my sister will give you a hug and a kiss.’

‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t like me.’

‘She will! Philemon will be our advocate, Hugh. Did you know it was Philemon who delivered that letter you so incautiously wrote to me?’

The frigate began its Atlantic roll. He walked her carefully to a nearby hatch and sat down, his cloak still tight around her. ‘He did tell me that, and gave me some reason to hope.’ He glanced at her. ‘Polly, do you think you and I will disagree on things, as the Brittles do?’

‘I think you can count on it,’ she told him. ‘I have a brain; so do you. How could we possibly see eye to eye on everything?’ She moved herself into his embrace, wrapping her arms around him. ‘I never told you this, but I wrote you a letter, too, only I never sent it. You can read it, when we get to Oporto.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not cheerful reading.’

‘It’s not a cheerful war. You know that better than any female, Brandon. We’re returning to Stonehouse Barracks and I am going back to boring desk duty, where I will write that report—as much as I can from memory—and strenuously argue for the Marines to be used as liaison with
guerrilleros
like Espoz y Mina.’ He twined his fingers through hers. ‘Maybe there will be time for you and me and João to visit Scotland, but I doubt it.’

‘What will I do?’

He kissed her hand. ‘You can begin by decorating my quarters. I’m embarrassed for you to see them now, but that can’t be helped. And just think—you can spend leisure time playing “There was an old bee” with João.’

‘I can,’ she agreed, feeling impish. Either the waves weren’t rolling too high yet, or she was finally developing those mythical sea legs her Marine spoke of. More immediately, she saw a future belowdeck in a sleeping cot with her husband.
I used to be a lot more circumspect
, she thought, as she leaned closer to him.
Thank goodness that passed
. ‘I have a version of my own for you. “There was an old bee…”’

‘Brandon, you scamp,’ he exclaimed, even as he made no effort to stop her pointing finger, which was more of a caress than a circle, and targeted south of his stomach. ‘No one’s ever done the bee like that before. No, don’t stop.’

‘“…who lived in a barn,”’ she continued, not even bothering with the circle any more, but touching him where she knew it would do the most good, considering her designs on her husband. She began to undo the buttons on his trousers. ‘“He carried a bagpipe…”’ she began, but he stood up then.

‘“…under his arm,”’ he continued, as he kept the cloak around both of them and started with her for the gangway. ‘So glad you remember that little ditty, except that I may never be able to look at it in the same way again. I believe you are a rascal, Brandon.’

Thirty minutes later, he was deep asleep, cradling her in his arms, as he had protected her from Plymouth to Santander, and apparently back again. She thought about looking for her nightgown, but that was more effort than she deemed strictly necessary. Besides, she might just have to take it off again, and she knew how Hugh, darling, felt about effective time management.

As Colonel Junot slept the good sleep of the thoroughly rogered, she pillowed her head against his chest. So much had happened since early summer, when she had left Plymouth as a green girl. Autumn was almost winter. Wellington and his troops were slogging back to Portugal. The war was her companion, but no war lasted for ever. Duty called her Colonel, and always would, but she expected no less. In the grand scheme of things—where armies marched and tyrants decreed—perhaps nothing had changed. In her heart, everything had. She listened to the ship’s bells, content to watch over him.