Fortune's Bride (40 page)

The spirits of the whole army were high, but Robert was so
busy that he did not spend a single night with Esmeralda, barely managing a
flying visit or two along the route as he carried orders or messages. This was
just as well, because he would have been worried sick if he had realized what
his wife was enduring. Esmeralda was suffering bitterly from the cold, to which
she was not accustomed. Her misery was increased by the fact that quarters on
the road were dreadful and, on two nights, nonexistent. She spent those in the
open, huddling with Molly and Carlos for warmth.

She managed not to complain, not so much from fear of being
sent away now as from the realization that Robert probably could no longer
arrange for her to be conveyed elsewhere. Again Molly was her model and
support.

“If ye’re an army woife, ye must no expec’ inny better,”
Molly said with a wry grimace and a resigned shrug. “Fleas in summer ‘nd
freezin’ in winter ‘s ye’re lot fer loife. Thit, or stay hoom.”

There was a hovel for them at Mayorga, with a shed at the
back for the horses and mules. Esmeralda insisted that Molly and Carlos share
it with her until Robert came in to sleep, if he did. And to Molly’s argument
that it was not proper, Esmeralda smiled wanly and retorted, “Perhaps not, but
it’s warm.”

Under the circumstances the smell of the horses and mules
might have been offensive, but Esmeralda’s nose had ceased to function. Neither
she nor any other member of the party had taken off the clothes they were
wearing for a week. If Esmeralda gave the animals a thought, it was of
gratitude that they added a mite of warmth to the back wall and stood buffer
against the wind. Firewood was scarce, and it had begun to snow. That they had
any firewood at all was owing to Carlos’s enterprise, for he picked up every
stick he saw and tucked it into Luisa’s pack.

Robert had no more time for his wife at Mayorga than before.
To Moore’s disappointment, Soult had not yet begun the advance into Léon
ordered by the intercepted dispatch. He could only assume that no copy of those
orders had reached Soult or that the French marshal had other reasons for
remaining in the position to which the dispatch had been addressed. However, a
light cavalry brigade was stationed at Sahagun, only nine miles from the
pickets guarding the extreme front of the English lines.

Lord Paget, a highly enterprising officer, sent for
permission to attempt a surprise, and Robert rode back with the messenger to
observe the action. Sir John knew Lord Paget to be in deep personal trouble. It
was most unlikely that so responsible an officer would lead his men into a
disaster because of a private death wish, however, Sir John had a cautious streak
and felt that Robert’s presence might be reminder to Paget of his
responsibilities.

Robert stopped at Esmeralda’s quarters to change to his
hussar uniform and was horrified, but he had no time to do more than say, “I’m
sorry, Merry. If we stay, I’ll see what I can do when I get back, but I don’t
think we’ll be here for more than the one night.”

In this assumption, Robert was correct. Lord Paget’s action
was a brilliant success—two lieutenant colonels, eleven other officers, and one
hundred and fifty-seven men were taken prisoner, twenty were killed, and many
were wounded at a cost of fourteen casualties for Paget’s troops. More
important, Sahagun was cleared of Soult’s cavalry screen, and Moore’s army
moved forward on December 21. Here Esmeralda’s quarters were a little better,
but that did nothing to lift her spirits. Robert sent M’Guire to say that he
was back safe, and strangely, Esmeralda was grateful that he did not come
himself. It saved her from the necessity of putting a good face on her misery.
But why she was so downspirited she had no idea. All she knew was that she felt
weepy and irritable and sometimes even slightly nauseated.

She did her best to control herself, but she snapped at
Carlos so often that he found duties to keep him in the stable despite the
cold. Molly also got the sharp edge of Esmeralda’s tongue. At first Molly
assumed that the cold or the prospect of more fighting was upsetting her
mistress’s usually equable temper, but several times she found Esmeralda crying
when she knew there could be no specific reason for tears, and that was
completely unnatural. Mrs. Moreton, Molly thought, did not give way easily to
tears.

Then a new idea occurred to her. Molly had not thought much
about the fact that Esmeralda had been married since late July and had not
conceived. Fine ladies, she understood, had their ways of preventing such
things. When she was free of the child she was carrying, if Mrs. Moreton’s mood
improved, she might ask. But Molly suddenly recalled Esmeralda’s failure to
recognize her pregnancy and her mistress’s confession of complete ignorance
concerning so vital a female concern as childbearing. Molly wrinkled her brow
in thought. When was the last time she had washed rags bloodied with Mrs.
Moreton’s “time”? It had not been recently. It had been…not since they were in
Lisbon. Could that be right? But on thinking it over, Molly became certain. Not
since Lisbon.

Once that was clear in her mind, Molly leaned back against
the wall and looked speculatively at her mistress’s back. Esmeralda was huddled
near the fire, staring into the flames. Poor little creature, Molly thought, no
wonder she was so interested in all the little details of carrying and bearing
a child. And now she was frightened, poor little bird. Molly’s eyes filled with
tears, but not only for Esmeralda. She was worried herself. She was very near
her time now, and although in general, childbearing held no terrors for her,
the circumstances were not good. She had hoped they would remain in Salamanca,
where she had excellent quarters, until the baby was born.

Molly had considerable military experience, having followed
the drum for over fifteen years. It had seemed to her, since she was ignorant
of the real situation, that it was too late in the season to begin a campaign.
She glanced again at Esmeralda, leaning forward a little, and saw her mistress
was crying again. Molly sighed. If Mrs. Moreton hadn’t spoken of her private
fears, it wasn’t her place to push in where she wasn’t wanted, but it seemed
that two women with the same burden should comfort each other.

Another few minutes passed in silence while Molly considered
how very kind Mrs. Moreton had been. She had bought the mule and extra blankets
and—Molly put up a hand to wipe the few drops from her cheeks—and even some
special linen for the baby. It was true Mrs. Moreton knew her place and did not
often invite familiarity, but she was not so high and mighty as some officers’
wives. Molly watched the trembling shoulders.
Surely Oi owe her a word o’
comfort
, she thought.
‘Nd even if she doesno’ wan’ it, she will do no
more thin not answer or tell me t’ be quiet
.

“It’ll be long ‘til yer toime, ma’am,” Molly said softly.
“Ye’ll no be brought t’ bed ‘til Juloy, mebbe. Weel be in a better place thin.
There’s naught t’ fear.”

Esmeralda jerked upright and turned so sharply on her chair
that she nearly tipped over. “What?” she asked.

The question was puzzled, but not bad tempered. Molly
thought her mistress had not heard her because she had spoken so softly, and
she repeated herself, enlarging on the fact that Esmeralda’s baby would not be
born until the early summer, an excellent time owing to the warmth. And, she
added, the time was at least seven months away. Since Esmeralda did not check
her and encouraged her, if not with words, then by wiping away her tears, Molly
continued to talk about the event, assuring her mistress that she would not be
inconvenienced by the child for a long time, that there would be plenty of time
even to go to England, if she should wish to do so, although Spain and Portugal
both seemed to have healthy climates.

Meanwhile, Esmeralda’s mind had been racing wildly, not over
what Molly was now saying but over what she had said weeks before, in
Salamanca. Now Esmeralda realized that she had been so concerned over many
different things—Robert’s inexplicable sadness, which had, thank God,
disappeared, Bear, the prospect of more fighting, Molly’s revelation of her
pregnancy… A faint smile appeared on Esmeralda’s lips. Goodness, what an idiot
she had been. She had never noticed that her regular bleeding had stopped—of
course, she had never paid much attention to it since it caused her no
trouble—but she had not connected Molly’s description of the early stages of
pregnancy with herself.

Hastily, while Molly was rambling on about what she had
heard of the dry, pleasant weather of the peninsula in the spring, Esmeralda
made the same calculations that had convinced Molly her mistress was pregnant.
Joy flooded her. She was carrying Robert’s child! She nearly choked, suppressing
the laughter at her own foolishness, but she would not admit that she had not
recognized her condition. It would be too embarrassing, after failing to
recognize Molly’s.

“So ye see,” Molly was concluding, “there’s no need t’ fret
yerself, an’ Oi’ve heerd ‘tis bad fer the choild.”

“Oh dear,” Esmeralda said, “then I must surely make an
effort to be more cheerful.”

At that moment it did not seem to her that it would take
much effort at all. Molly had said nothing about feeling downhearted for the first
month or two, but Esmeralda connected her depression with the mild nausea she
had been experiencing. Now that she knew what it was, she was sure she could
combat it. And for the remainder of that day, anyway, she was successful. She
busied herself with their quarters, although she had almost given up hope of
Robert joining her.

But thinking of him gave her a double qualm of fear. The
first sent her to her baggage for a mirror, comb, and brush. Had she, in her
senseless sadness, allowed herself to deteriorate in appearance? She was
shocked at what she saw. Her face was dirty, and her hair looked like a rat’s
nest. Was that why Robert no longer spent his nights with her? She told herself
it was ridiculous, that he and all the other ADCs were frantically busy because
they were the links of communication that held the strung-out chain of the army
together.

Nonetheless, a seed of doubt remained. Robert had not been
too busy to come back to her in the early days in Portugal. She felt tears
rising again over his neglect—and then wondered whether she really felt
neglected or if this was another part of her recent unevenness of spirits. She
fought down the self-pity and tried to consider the situation calmly, which
brought her to the conclusion that Sir Arthur’s army had been smaller, and Sir
Arthur did not seem to change his mind so often or communicate so frequently
with his general officers so that the ADCs had much less to do. Perhaps Sir
Arthur’s situation had been less critical—she could not judge that.

But thinking about the military situation brought a new
problem to mind. Esmeralda knew that as soon as Robert heard of her pregnancy,
he would move heaven and earth to get her away to England. As she washed her
face and straightened her hair, she considered her state with considerable
satisfaction. Surely Robert would request leave and take her home himself. Then
he would be spared whatever dreadful battle was coming.

The trouble was that it would only be the one battle,
Esmeralda was sure. And then she began to wonder whether if there was a battle
in the offing,
would
Robert ask for leave? Would he not consider it his
duty to remain? Sir John sent messengers to Lord Castlereagh with relative
frequency. Would Robert send her off with one of those messengers to be
delivered to his parents? No man who loved his wife would do that, she
thought—and there were tears coming again, for she was not in the least sure
that Robert loved her. A few times when they had started on his leave, before
they had found Bear, it had seemed as if…

She was afraid to continue that line of thought,
particularly in view of how little effort he had made these past few weeks to
be with her. But how could any man be so cruel as to send her to strangers to
bear his child? She would rather have Molly. And then it occurred to her that
even if Robert took her to England, he would leave her there and himself
return. And after the child was born—could she take an infant into a war zone?
There was no question of it, the choice would not be hers. Robert would never
permit it.

Esmeralda’s emotions seesawed up and down, joy alternating
with tears. At last, when heavy sobs began to shake her, she realized she was
pushing herself into hysterics. If Robert came by and found her crying, she
would have to confess. Esmeralda’s thought checked, and so did her tears. There
was no need to tell Robert of her pregnancy—not for months.
He
would not
notice any change in her body, particularly, she thought wryly, if he did not
share her bed.

Then she would not be sent to England. And who knew what
would happen in two or three months? The war would probably not be over, but
with the onset of really bad winter weather, there might be a hiatus. If there
was no prospect of action, Robert would surely come to England with her. She
rose briskly and washed her face once more to remove all trace of tears, vowing
she would not permit herself to fall into the dismals again, and she did not,
firmly controlling her impulses to lapse into lachrymose self-pity over her
dilemma.

She had a double reward—at least, she thought of it that way
for several days, although in the weeks ahead she had reason to change her
mind. Not long after she, Molly, and Carlos had eaten, Robert did come in.

“It’s all off,” he said.

Esmeralda rose to her feet, putting aside the mending she
had been doing. “You mean that Soult has retreated?” she asked, and then urged,
“come to the fire. You look frozen.”

“Not half so frozen as I will be.” His lips were thin with
anger and anxiety. “No, Soult hasn’t retreated. The damned Spanish junta lied
to us again—or maybe they just didn’t know. We’ve just had word that Bonaparte
himself is after us, not with eighty thousand troops, which the junta kept
swearing was the full count of French in Spain, but with two hundred thousand.
We have to run.”

“We can be ready in half an hour,” Esmeralda said calmly.
Since she was convinced that nothing could be worse than what she had already
endured—and survived—she was not frightened.

Robert looked at her blankly for just a moment, then his
eyes cleared, and he came forward to the fire, smiling and reaching for her.
“My dear,” he sighed, “you never fail me. But there’s no need to fly this
moment. Boney’s army isn’t at our door. We may have to make some very long
marches, but we are in no real danger.”

Quite certain now that there was virtually no chance of a
battle taking place, Esmeralda felt free to express regret at the lost
opportunity. For this very false sentiment, she was fondly kissed and praised.