Tarleton's Wife (7 page)

“Here, Sir.”

“Promise you’ll make her go. Tie her up if you have to but see she goes home. Promise!” Nicholas managed to focus on Julia, whose lips were stubbornly closed. “You just promised to obey, my girl. You’ll go home as ordered.” His eyes shut, the world rapidly fading away. “Promise,” he murmured.

He felt her lips softly moving against his ear. “I want to stay, Nicholas. Please…let me stay.”

He pushed the words out with great effort. “No…home. Promise.”

“Very well,” she gulped, anger and frustration breaking her determined calm. “I promise.”

Relief swirled through him as he gave himself up to the welcoming darkness.

For some moments Julia simply stared at him—at the tangled mat of long sandy hair, the pale face touched by surprisingly long lashes, the fine high cheekbones, narrow mouth, the strong determined chin. Never would she let herself believe she might not see him again. That way lay madness.

From her medical supplies she took her scissors, lifted her skirt and unpicked the stitching that held a muslin pouch of coins to the inside of one of her petticoats. “Daniel,” she instructed, holding out the pouch, “go to the nearest church and ask the priest who is the best doctor in La Coruña, then find him and bring him here. If this is not enough, tell him I’ll have more when he gets here.”

Daniel Runyon hefted the pouch. “This should be enough for ten doctors, miss…missus, I wouldna offer anyone more.” At the look in her eyes he slipped the pouch inside his jacket. “Aye, miss, I’ll offer the moon itself if he’ll come. Never fear, I’ll find him.”

He was back in under an hour. With him was a man whose features were nearly obscured by the brown robe and cowl of a monk. “This is Brother Miguel, missus. Says he’ll be glad to do what he can for the major.”

When the monk finished his examination of the unconscious major, he thought longingly of what all that gold would do for his parish and fought a momentary battle with his conscience before commencing to speak in slow simple Spanish the two English might understand. “
Señora, señor
, there is little I can do here. The major is in God’s hands. He will live or he will die. It is most likely that he will die. I can sit with him but for this I cannot take your money.” He held out the pouch to Julia. “Comforting the dying is God’s work and I am his servant here on earth.”

She would not cry. She would not collapse here in this strange city in this strange country in front of all the wounded of Britain’s gallant army. With fierce determination Julia closed the rift in the armor girding her emotions. “The money is yours, Brother Miguel. I honor your honesty and depend on you to do what you can. If the major should live, you will need some of the gold for his keep.” Her blue eyes studied the monk with fierce intensity. “There is also the no small matter of hiding him from the French. If he does not live,” Julia forced herself to a calm assessment of the situation, “I would gladly see it all go to whatever good use you wish to put it.” She swayed, grabbing Daniel’s arm to steady herself. “Whatever happens,” she continued steadfastly, “I am infinitely grateful for your help.”

“That we are,” Daniel added. “Come, missus, it’s time to go. Tom Pickering says the regiment is passing by now. I’m thinkin’ ’twould be best if we stayed with our own.”

She couldn’t do it. She had lied. To him. To herself. Julia dropped to her knees beside Nicholas’ still body, burying her face in his neck.

There was a long pause while Daniel Runyon struggled with his own emotions. “Very well,” he conceded, we’ll wait. But when they come to evacuate the wounded, we’ll be going. There’ll be no staying behind, miss. I promised the major and go back to England you will.”

The long night wore on, broken only by the steady tramp of marching feet, the squeaking wheels of artillery limbers and supply wagons, the cries of the wounded, the gasping breaths of the dying. Nicholas Tarleton lay like Ensign Welland before him, unmoving, as if already dead, surrounded by those who kept vigil—his new bride, his Irish batman, a fife-playing bandsman and a Spanish monk who was, fortunately, as good a doctor as he was a man of God.

At one point during those long dark hours Daniel Runyon slipped off, returning sometime later with a young woman whose face showed the ravages of tears. “Meg O’Callaghan, missus,” Daniel declared. “Corporal O’Callaghan’s wife. Widowed this night, she is and no family of her own. I thought she might do as a companion. And if she should suit, she’s willing to go to The Willows as maid.”

“If y’ think I c’d learn, missus,” the young woman murmured, rubbing a tear from her cheek. “I’d be right glad for the position, I would.”

Even with her senses dulled by the continual barrage of sorrow, Julia couldn’t help but acknowledge that Daniel Runyon had an eye for women. If there was a prettier one among the many camp followers, Julia had never seen her. There was no question of whether or not Meg O’Callaghan would join them. She had been chosen.

The wounded embarked last. In the first pale light of morning the litters were borne through the streets to the quayside. As the parade of gaunt, bloody men passed by, the townspeople crossed themselves. Between them, Daniel Runyon and Tom Pickering dragged Julia to her feet and marched her off behind the litters, Daniel reciting a litany of “You promised, missus. He was happy because you promised. Remember your promise. You have to go home because you promised.” And, as she balked and tried to turn back, “
Damn it, Julia, you bloody well promised
!”

From the deck of their ship they stood at the rail and watched as an honor guard bore the body of General Sir John Moore along the ramparts on the way to his burial. On the ridge behind the battlefield the French guns were long gone, laboriously lowered down the backside of the ridge with ropes held fast by men and mules. The French had been saved from a complete rout only by the fall of Sir John Moore and Marshal Soult dared not risk a possible renewal of the conflict. If he could not break the British Army, he would damn well save his cannon.

So the British fleet—all two hundred and fifty ships—hoisted sail and exited the harbor at La Coruña without a shot being fired. The only sounds were the shouts of the sailors, the slap of billowing canvas, the high keening screech of gulls as the British armada slipped out to sea. Left behind were their dead, the rotting corpses of their horses, a city of shattered windows and shattered nerves.

A major and a monk.

Chapter Four

Ebadiah Woodworthy, at two and forty, was in the prime of life. On the infrequent occasions when he paused to consider his accomplishments, he felt more than a modicum of satisfaction. His circle of clients ranged from Nottingham to the west, Boston on the east and as far south as Peterborough. He had recently acquired a modest country house and had ventured his first risk capital on a trading voyage to the Orient. His brown hair, though receding at the forehead, revealed no hint of gray. Deceptively lazy dark eyes and a lean figure, well attired in the latest London fashion, completed the portrait of a successful solicitor with a wide range of wealthy clients.

The latest of whom promised to be a great deal of trouble.

Mr. Woodworthy took his time perusing the various papers presented to him by the alleged Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton. While doing so, he attempted to ignore the unwavering stares of the lady’s two companions, a ragged soldier and an equally shabby maidservant. Such persons as these had never before entered the elegant confines of his office. Mrs. Tarleton—the alleged Mrs. Tarleton—was in slightly better case, he conceded. Her dark blue traveling gown, though worn and outmoded, was of good quality. He supposed he should be grateful. A female riding at the tail of an army could have been an out-and-out tart.

Julia, well aware of Ebadiah Woodworthy’s piercing appraisal, gratefully acknowledged her foresight in packing one decent gown. Unwilling to wait until the army could sort out their trunks from whatever ship they had been on, Julia, Daniel and Meg had left their direction with a harried Quartermaster and set out for London and the Great North Road. To each of them The Willows had become the golden beacon promising peace, a haven from the horror behind them, a place to grieve and find the hope of renewal. And now, amidst the calm civility of Lincolnshire—stalwart survivors though they were—they quailed before Ebadiah Woodworthy’s basilisk stare.

The solicitor held Julia’s marriage lines by one corner as if to imply the document so tainted as to soil his pristine fingers. “All these people witnessed your wedding?” he inquired smoothly. “How extraordinary.”

Julia assured him the major had wished it.

Once again Mr. Woodworthy peered at the document. “You must know that I am familiar with the major’s signature, ma’am. This, I assure you, is a most unlikely facsimile.”

“He was dying, you fool!” Daniel Runyon, no longer able to contain his anger at the solicitor’s attitude, minced no words.

Julia bit her lip. This was but one more nightmare to be endured. Calmly, she explained the signatures below Nicholas’ scrawl. “If you wish, both Dr. Channing and Mr. Wedderburn, the chaplain, can be located through Horse Guards. I assure you they will confirm that all happened exactly as we have told you.”

Ebadiah Woodworthy lowered the marriage certificate to his desk and picked up the major’s will, leaving the anxious trio in his office to suffer in silence. Lastly, he spent long minutes over Colonel Litchfield’s will. “The matter is clear,” Mr. Woodworthy finally pronounced. “Whether or not you are married to Major Tarleton, you have been left in my care by the provisions of the major’s will as well as your father’s, Miss Litch—Mrs. Tarleton. In the eyes of the law, Major Tarleton is your legal guardian and as I am his representative, you have become my responsibility.”

Julia could not keep tears from springing to her eyes. The last great hurdle had been passed. They had a home. Behind her, Daniel Runyon swallowed and flexed his fingers, stiff from the nervous grip he had kept on the satchel with their money. Meg O’Callaghan ducked her head, wiping her eyes with her cuff.

Ebadiah Woodworthy considered himself a perceptive man but only now did it occur to him that if the chit were truly married to Tarleton, it would be most foolish to treat her poorly. Compromise was necessary. “Since the marriage certificate seems to have been signed by half the British army,” he pronounced, choosing his words with care, “I have no objection to your styling yourself Mrs. Tarleton while I make inquiries. There is, however, one difficulty you may not have anticipated.”

Three pairs of eyes focused on the solicitor’s face. Every word he spoke rang with the authoritative tones of a judgment from the high bench and none of them had the strength left to argue.

“As far as the law is concerned, Major Tarleton still lives. I can abide by the provisions of guardianship but I cannot execute the will until we have official notification of the major’s death. Given the circumstances, this may be difficult to obtain. But until that time, Miss…Mrs. Tarleton—even if doubt should extend after you reach your majority—I fear you will not have any control of the estate.”

The facts were inarguable. In an era when women were not allowed to control money unless it was specifically willed to them—as Nicholas Tarleton thought he was doing—Julia had no legal right to protest Ebadiah Woodworthy’s control of her life. That she could not marry again, transfer the estate to a new husband or move the estate out of Ebadiah Woodworthy’s hands had not yet occurred to any of the trio.

It was only with some difficulty that the solicitor restrained a triumphant smile.

* * * * *

“He’s a bad ’un, missus, I can tell,” declared Meg O’Callaghan as soon as they were out of the building. “Me pa taught me about men like ’im. Smooth as glass they be and’ll have y’r money off ya quick as cat c’n lick ’is ear.”

In spite of her name, Meg O’Callaghan was a product of the streets of London, her father’s opinions of solicitors not unnaturally colored by his frequent brushes with the law. Other than a natural pixie-like beauty, her qualifications for the post of lady’s maid consisted of quick wit, a quicker tongue and a willingness to learn. Julia, who had never before enjoyed the services of any but an occasional housemaid, coped with the problem of training Meg in her usual direct fashion. Her priorities were perhaps not those recommended by London’s more elite employment registeries. During the voyage from Spain she had begun to teach Meg O’Callaghan to read. She had also attempted to improve her speech. Reading was progressing remarkably well. Speech was not.

“Aye, she’s right, missus,” Daniel agreed. “Woodworthy’s not so worthy, I’m thinkin’.”

“I can’t help but agree,” Julia sighed, “but what we can do about it I can’t imagine. We’re fortunate he didn’t find some devious way to turn us out into the street. We shall have to go softly with Mr. Woodworthy. Though it goes much against the grain, he holds our lives in his hands. Or mine at least. You are both free to make your lives elsewhere.”

“As if I ever would!” Meg cried. “You’ve treated me like a real person. And to live in a ’ouse in t’ country and ’av a chance fer to be a lady’s maid. Oh, missus, y’ll not send me away!”

The maid’s vehemence brought a thin smile to Julia’s lips. “Of course I won’t send you away, goose. I merely wanted you to know you were not bound, as I am, by Ebadiah Woodworthy’s edicts. Daniel?”

“If you think for one minute I’d leave you, missus, you’re far less of a woman than I took you to be,” Daniel declared stoutly.