Lord Harry's Daughter (7 page)

Chapter
10

The next morning Sophia rose earlier than usual to make sure that her rifle and her pistol were clean. She smiled grimly as she wiped the barrel of her rifle. If Major Lord Mark Adair was surprised at her owning such a weapon, he would certainly have been astounded to learn that she cleaned and loaded it herself as Sergeant Mapplethorpe had taught her to do many years ago. He had been concerned for the safety of Lord Harry's wife and daughter and made sure that Sophia at least knew how to protect them. She wished for the sergeant now, but he had returned to England with the Twenty-third Hussars soon after her father's death.

“Are you ready, miss?"

Sophia whirled around to see Speen standing in the doorway, his hand held out to take the gun she had just finished cleaning.

“Yes, thank you, Speen.” Sophia picked up her hat and crop and, clutching the skirt of her riding habit in one hand, followed him to the stables. To her great relief they encountered no one. The general had gone to headquarters early that morning to plan the final assault on San Sebastian and her mother, from the sound of it, was directing the maids in the airing out of the bedding.

Sophia breathed more easily. If asked, she would say that she and Speen were going out for target practice, which would not be precisely a lie, but it would not be the truth either. As it was, she had been reluctant to reveal her plans to her stepfather's batman, but she had had no choice in the matter. Luis would have flatly refused to accompany her in such an outrageous endeavor, and he would have felt it incumbent upon him to report it. Speen, though he might be critical of her actions, knew that with or without him she would keep her appointment with the major. Initially he had been reluctant to help her and it had taken some convincing on her part.

“I do not know about this. Miss Sophia. I cannot think that your mother or the general would approve of such a thing."

“Perhaps not, but what could I do? My honor, the family's honor, was at stake.” Sophia had been somewhat daunted by the skeptical expression on the batman's face, but not to the point of giving in. “Speen, you would not want it noised about that anyone in this household was so weak as to back out of such a challenge. It would never do to have it thought that General Curtis's stepdaughter was not a woman of her word."

Speen had read the determination in the hazel eyes fixed so steadily on him and in the stubborn set of her jaw and he had given in. After all, it was better to go along with her so that he could at least keep an eye on her. Silently consigning all headstrong young women to perdition, he had agreed to act as a judge at her upcoming contest. “But when it is discovered what you have done, and you know it will come out, Miss Sophia, I will not have it said I approved of such behavior, for you know I do not."

She had smiled gratefully. “Of course not, Speen. I shall take all the blame."

“Humph. Much good that will do me when the general gives me a dressing down."

“You are a true friend, Speen, and I know you would not have me back down on my word."

“No, Miss Sophia, I would not.” Only slightly mollified, he sighed heavily, then his bright blue eyes twinkled. “Is the major aware of the competition he is facing?"

“I warned him, but I do not think he took my warnings too seriously.” There was an answering twinkle in Sophia's eyes. She had won him over as she had known she would. Speen might act disapproving, but in truth he was as proud of her prowess as he would have been of any young officer who was his protégé.

They arrived at the designated meeting place to find the major and his batman pacing out the field behind the shrine. The field had been allowed to run fallow and thus offered a fairly smooth and level area. “I have been considering another contest along with marksmanship.” Mark greeted her. “After all, as you said yourself, being able to ride as well as defend oneself is critical for anyone aspiring to be an exploring officer; therefore Finbury and I have marked out a racecourse for us.” He gestured to some sticks stuck in the ground to form a rough oval.

“Very well.” Sophia slid off Atalanta's back and reached for the rifle that Speen handed her. “And where are the targets?"

“They will come later. First the race."

“But that makes no sense. Riding a horse is sure to tire one's arms and affect one's aim."

“I thought you wished to prove yourself worthy of being an exploring officer."

“I did, but..."

“And exploring officers rarely, if ever, have the choice of riding first or shooting first."

“Very well.” Ignoring Speen, who came to help her remount, Sophia hoisted herself back into the saddle. “I am ready."

“Good. The start as well as the finish is here.” The major pointed to a rough line in the dust drawn between two twisted apple trees. “On the count of three Finbury will fire the starting shot and we shall go once around the course."

Sophia walked Atalanta over to the line and gathered the reins tightly in her hands. The more clipped and businesslike the major's accents had become, the more she resolved to beat him or perish in the attempt. She stole a glance over at Speen, who nodded encouragingly, and then focused her attention on Finbury.

Gun pointed skyward, the batman intoned, “One, two, three.” The pistol cracked and Sophia dug her heels into Atalanta and bent low over the mare's neck. She knew the major was a bruising rider and there was no doubt he was splendidly mounted. On a horse two hands higher than Atalanta, he had a distinct advantage despite his weight. She would just have to make up for it by skillful riding.

He rounded the first stake half a length ahead of her, the second by only a little less, for Atalanta's nose now was at Caesar's hindquarters. By the third post they had gained so much that Atalanta's nose was at Caesar's shoulder, and at the fourth it was equal with his neck, but in spite of all she did, Sophia was a nose behind as she pounded across the finish line.

If Sophia was less than pleased with her performance, Mark was nothing short of astounded. Accustomed to besting most of his fellow officers in such contests, he had expected to win easily. Ordinarily in such an unequal contest he would have taken his time, but annoyed by Sophia's delusion that she could shoot and ride well enough to do his job, he had resolved, at least at the beginning of the race, to push as hard as he would against the most challenging of opponents, promising himself that once he had established a respectable lead he would back off to give Caesar a rest and keep him from completely destroying her illusions. He was still a gentleman, after all, no matter how unladylike his opponent's behavior might be. But that respectable lead never came.

“That were as magnificent a race as I ever did see. You are a fair rider yourself, miss, for I never saw anyone nearly overtake his lordship the way you did. Another few lengths and you might have won.” Finbury's obvious admiration for Sophia did not improve his master's temper one whit.

“Thank you.” Pushing a stray tendril of hair back under her hat, Sophia leaned over Atalanta's neck and held out her hand. “A wonderful race. Major. I cannot think when I have been so well matched.” Her eyes sparkled with exhilaration and her gentlemanlike behavior only made Mark feel all the more churlish.

Trying to regain control of himself and of the situation, he dismounted and strolled over to help her down. “And now what will it be, pistols or rifles?"

“Oh pistols, I should think. Let us give ourselves some time to catch our breaths before attempting to do anything truly challenging."

“Very well.” Mark nodded to Finbury, who affixed a wafer to one of the stakes that had marked the racecourse, and all of them paced off twenty paces. “As the loser in the last competition and since you are unfamiliar with my pistol it is your right to have a practice shot.” Mark handed his pistol to Speen, who handed it to Sophia.

“Thank you.” Sophia grasped it, hefted it to get a sense of its weight, and then, aiming at an apple hanging from a nearby tree, fired. “It does throw a little to the left, does it not?"

“It does,” Mark responded, grimly watching her as she reloaded.

Sophia drew several deep breaths. She could tell from her opponent's barely suppressed annoyance that he had not expected her to do as well as she had thus far and it made her all the more determined to show him up. Grasping her lower lip in her teeth, she held her breath, sighted carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The stake shook, but the wafer remained in place.

Nicked it. Mark thought and allowed himself a superior grin while Speen, glancing over his shoulder at Sophia, winked broadly.

“Right in the center, hole clean through, a perfect shot,” Finbury declared as he retrieved the wafer.

Grinding his teeth. Mark took the pistol from Sophia, reloaded it, aimed it, and fired. The wafer fluttered to the ground. “Nicked it, by God,” he muttered under his breath.

This time it was Speen who retrieved the wafer. “Well, you
did
hit the edge of it, sir.” The general's batman did not bother to hide the jubilant note in his voice. “Now let us pace off for the rifle. A hundred yards, did you say, Miss Sophia?"

“Yes, a hundred yards, and this time it is the major who may have a practice shot and the first shot."

After picking up Mark's wafer and affixing a fresh target, a larger one this time, pulled from Sophia's sketchbook, Speen returned to the group, handed the rifle to the major, and they paced off the distance again.

Declining to take a practice shot. Mark raised the gun to his shoulder and sighted even more carefully this time. Holding his breath, he fired, praying that his bullet would land squarely in the center of the target.

“A capital shot, sir,” Speen remarked as he retrieved the piece of paper that sported a neat hole on the ring surrounding the bull's-eye in the center.

A good shot, but will it be good enough. Mark wondered as he handed the rifle back to Speen. He had seen enough now to be less certain of his prowess than he had been, and it did not improve his temper any to see Speen hand Sophia the rifle for her to reload herself.

Some of Sophia's nervousness had worn off now that she had bested the major in at least one contest and she was calmer this time as she raised the rifle and fired.

“Well, I'll be blowed!” Finbury held up the target to gaze in astonishment at the bullet hole fixed squarely in the center of the target.

“She is an angel with a gun, she is,” Speen declared proudly. “There is not a man in any regiment that can get the best of Lord Harry's daughter."

“It is a question of observation,” Sophia amended modestly. The ferocious scowl on her opponent's face was all the satisfaction she needed. There would be no more aspersions cast on her ability to defend herself after this.

“Oh naturally.” The major did not look particularly enlightened.

“As an artist I have trained myself to see to a degree of accuracy that the ordinary person does not."

“It is also a matter of control which you also possess to a remarkable degree.” The tone of his voice made it clear that the major did not necessarily consider this to be a particularly admirable trait.

“Of course it is a matter of control. It is one's control in any area of endeavor that gives one the degree of mastery it takes to excel at anything.” Sophia could not say why she felt so defensive except that her opponent had made control seem like a defect instead of a virtue.

Mark ground his teeth for the second time that day. The lady was speaking as though everyone who did not exert this iron control over themselves and their lives was a rash and impetuous thrill seeker who could not be depended upon to carry out any task in a responsible manner. “Except when control becomes so rigid that it stifles creativity and impedes action, which it frequently does. In fact, you will find that most soldiers do not make good exploring officers because they are so accustomed to following orders and acting in an orderly fashion they cannot think for themselves in difficult situations that require the ingenuity, resourcefulness, and courage that are the distinguishing characteristics of the exploring officer."

“And therefore, even though I have beaten you on two of the three tests you gave me you still disapprove of my notion to become an exploring officer.” Sophia spoke calmly enough, but there was a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. “If I were a commanding officer, forced to depend on information furnished to me by someone else, I would want that someone to be reliable rather than reckless, but I see that you do not agree with me. I thank you. Major, for a most interesting morning and I bid you good day.” And with that parting shot, Sophia handed the rifle back to Speen, grabbed Atalanta's reins, threw herself into the saddle, and headed back to Lesaca without so much as a backward glance.

Chapter
11

Left behind in ignominious defeat, Mark walked slowly over to Caesar and mounted. He did not head toward Lesaca, however, but turned instead off across the field toward the Bidassoa. He needed time alone to think, and the wild beauty of the rocky heights above the river was exactly suited to the tumult of his disordered thoughts.

At the outset he had challenged Sophia to their contest out of sheer annoyance at the absurdity of her ridiculous notion of becoming an exploring officer and out of a desire to prove to her just how farfetched and impractical such an idea was. Not only had she ended up testing him formidably in one event, but she had beaten him soundly in the other two, and her parting remark had seriously shaken his self-image. Was he a rash and reckless thrill seeker after all? Certainly he had heard others criticize the exploring officers as men too headstrong and too independent to follow the orders of their regimental commanders and too ready to court danger to be in charge of other men, but he had always prided himself on being the exception. He was daring, yes, but all the risks he took were calculated. They were carefully thought out and weighed in balance against the importance of the information he would gain by taking them.

He did not do his job for the sheer glory of being an exploring officer; in fact he longed to be returned to his cavalry regiment. He was only an exploring officer because the information he was able to unearth could only be gotten by someone acting alone, someone who was able to move quickly and change his course of action in an instant if circumstances demanded it. However, he was never rash. He never lost sight of the main objective, which was to find something out, to stay alive, and to evade capture long enough to report it back to his superiors. Actually, Mark attributed his phenomenal success to the very care he took not to get caught or wounded. Now, in one brief moment Sophia had called all that into question by implying that it was a lack of control on his part that had allowed her to beat him.

His entire life. Mark had been the adventurous one in his family. His father and his brother were forever pointing out to him his many lapses in respectability. It was not that he deliberately flouted the traditions they held dear, he merely required a good reason to believe in them, and both his father and his brother viewed his attempts to develop his own values as out-and-out rebellion.

But now he wondered. A young woman, who was nothing if not unconventional herself, appeared to have arrived at much the same conclusions as his hidebound relatives. Was he so reckless, undisciplined, and lacking in control after all? Did Wellington see that in him, too, and was that why he had taken him from a cavalry command and made him into an exploring officer instead?

Mark stared down into the water swirling around the rocks below him. In all his life he could never remember doubting himself. When his father had lectured him or his brother had disparaged what he called Mark's harum-scarum life. Mark had been sure in his own heart that he was right. He might not demonstrate his duty to his family, but he showed it to his country. He might not abide by the rules of the
ton,
but he abided by the army's code of honor.

No matter how much anyone had criticized him, no one had made Lord Mark Adair question himself until this slip of a girl had appeared and forced him to question everything: his skill, his motivation, the very essence of who he was.

Mark returned to headquarters in a somber mood to be greeted by the news that the storming of San Sebastian had begun. “I still say it is the greatest of pities that the tide makes it necessary to attack in broad daylight,” the duke remarked as Mark joined the group of officers gathered around the large map that had been drawn from Sophia's sketches of the area. “Those poor fellows have to cross the beach in full view of everyone. Adair, be a good lad and find out from Graham how the attack is proceeding. And to help the Fifth Division storm the breach in the fortifications. They seem to be having a most difficult time of it."

Action was the perfect antidote to his black mood, and accepting his orders with some relief, Mark mounted Caesar and tore off in the direction of San Sebastian.

He found General Graham and a crowd of grim-faced officers clustered on the sand hills overlooking the broad expanse of beach that was the mouth of the Urumea River. As Mark approached, the general turned to his artillery commander. “Well, Dickson, you are in the right of it; the only way to stop those lads from throwing their lives away is to make an opening in the wall large enough for them to get through, but I do not like it. I do not like it at all.” He shook his head unhappily. “And there is no way to let them know what we are about."

“Very good, sir.” Colonel Dickson left to relay the command to his troops. His departure was soon followed by a deafening boom as the batteries on the sand hills opened fire on the ramparts of San Sebastian. As the smoke cleared, Mark watched the wavering column of red that had been huddled against the wall begin to pour over the rubble that had been laid by the cannonfire.

“I think it is ours at last.” General Graham wiped his brow and let out a sigh of relief. “It was a dangerous thing to do, but I do believe it has done the trick. The lads will be able to take it now, not immediately of course, but we have tipped the balance in their favor."

These were the only words Mark needed to hear, and offering his congratulations to the general, he threw himself on Caesar and galloped back toward Lesaca.

As he came up over the hill before Lesaca, he caught sight of the twisted tree where he had first seen Sophia sketching and he slowed for just a moment. He had the oddest urge to ride directly to General Curtis's quarters to tell her that the attack her drawings had helped them plan appeared to be successfully underway. But the happy memory of their first encounter was quickly succeeded by the recollection of their last meeting and her scornful parting words.
If I were a commanding officer forced to depend on information furnished to me by someone else, I would want that something to be reliable rather than reckless.
Gritting his teeth, he dug his heels into Caesar's flanks, forcing all thoughts of Sophia Featherstonaugh and her condescending criticisms from his mind.

It might have given Mark some consolation had he known that the young lady causing such an orgy of self-reflection in him was subjecting herself to the same self-scrutiny and finding herself no more pleased with herself than he had been.

After besting the major on the shooting range, Sophia tried to assuage her annoyance with him by riding Atalanta at a furious gallop along the dusty road home. Her anger had not abated one bit by the time she reached the village, so she continued on past it for several miles until her horse, already having had a more than sufficient workout during the race, showed signs of tiring. “Forgive me, Atalanta.” Sophia leaned forward to pat the sleek bay neck now dark with sweat. “I am forgetting that you have already had a great deal of exercise today. I shall just have to work off my ill humor some other way. Perhaps I shall return to the river and work on my painting."

But even after stabling her horse, peeling off the riding habit that was now sticking to her own sweaty body, splashing her face with cold water, and changing into a walking dress of lilac muslin, she remained furious.

As she made her way toward the river she discovered that she was still too upset to paint. However, as she walked, she gradually realized that what was bothering her was not the major's lack of confidence in her abilities, but his implication that she was a rigid person, and as she set up her easel overlooking the river, she struggled to identify precisely what it was about this implication that upset her.

From the time Sophia had been a little girl, old enough to worry when her father did not come home, and young enough to be frightened by his loud, boisterous good humor after an evening of carousing, she had vowed that she would never allow herself to become such a ridiculous figure. When his gambling debts swallowed up his promises of new clothes, when he came home smelling of another woman's perfume, she swore she would never let anyone down as her father had let them down. She would always be dependable, someone who could be counted on no matter what. And the erratic nature of their slender income had taught both Sophia and her mother to scrimp and save, and plan. She had witnessed all too often how an impulsive burst of generosity on her father's part would affect the quality of their meals for months afterward, not to mention lessening the number of rooms that could be warmed by a welcoming fire.

Until this moment, Sophia had always thought that the discipline she had acquired over herself and her emotions, her skill at organizing and planning, were good things. But now she began to wonder. Had she missed something by always thinking before she responded? Had she sacrificed her enjoyment of life by trying to avoid its excesses? Could it be that what she considered to be her responsible, dependable nature was in fact cold and calculating, and that in seeking to be serious and trustworthy she had succeeded only in being less lovable and less creative?

Certainly Lord Harry Featherstonaugh had been a trial to his wife and daughter, but to the rest of the world, the world that did not depend on him for food, clothing, or support, he was the best of good fellows. As far back as Sophia could remember he had been a universal favorite, and the men in his regiment were forever bragging to their brothers-in-arms of Captain Lord Harry's incredible feats of horsemanship, his bravery, and the crazy risks he took in order to be the first into battle, to push the furthest into the French defenses. No one Sophia could think of would understand that for his wife and daughter at least, life was a good deal calmer and less upsetting without the wild Lord Harry, who was genuinely missed by his comrades in the Twenty-third.

Sighing, Sophia picked up her brush, hoping to push all these disturbing thoughts from her mind as she concentrated on her painting, but she was only partially successful. Every once in a while the thought would intrude that maybe if she were not so aware of the time and not so busy helping her mother with household tasks she would paint better and more easily; she would be able to express the wild beauty of the scene instead of the pale imitation she seemed to be producing now.

At last she gave up in disgust and, packing up away her supplies, trudged slowly homeward, still asking herself if the major's comments were really true or if they had been inspired by his frustration at having been beaten by a woman.