The Sergeant's Lady (22 page)

James’ knuckles turned white where he gripped the arm of her chair. “It’s exactly what happened to our mother. She bore Anna, she bled too much, and she died.”

Lucy shifted the baby until she had a free hand, then smoothed her husband’s hair. “I don’t believe in fate. Anna isn’t doomed because of what happened to your mother.”

“I’m afraid to hope.”

“She’s strong. She fought hard for this child, and I’m sure she’ll fight to live for his sake.”

James brushed his lips against her hand. When he looked up, his expression was calm. “Did she tell you anything about the father?”

“She didn’t name him, but only said that he was brave and good, and that she loves him very much.” Lucy had drawn her own conclusions. “I think it must be that sergeant.”

James frowned. “What was his name—Atwell? You think so?”

Did she? Now she doubted. James was generally more perceptive than she. “I do,” she said uncertainly. “He rescued her, and they were alone together for days. And surely you remember how relieved she was last month when we got the letter from Helen that mentioned seeing him after Ciudad Rodrigo.”

“Naturally she wishes him well, but—my sister, with a common soldier? I can’t imagine it unless the fellow coerced her, and then she
wouldn’t
be kindly disposed toward him.”

Lucy wasn’t so sure. Certainly, the Anna she had first met, the blithe Miss Wright-Gordon, never would’ve looked twice at a sergeant, much less taken him as a lover. But the Anna who had turned up on their doorstep in November was a different woman entirely, transformed by war and unhappy marriage. Also, Lucy remembered that when James had read Helen’s letter aloud, Anna’s hand had dropped to her heavily pregnant belly at the mention of Sergeant At-something. Then Lucy had assumed the baby had been kicking, but now she wondered if it had been an instinctive gesture—Anna’s love for the father she could not reach transformed into affection for the child she almost could.

The baby’s mouth fell away from her breast, and Lucy did up her bodice and shifted him to her shoulder, rubbing his back.

James stood and paced back and forth. “I know who the father is,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yes.” He halted and leaned against the bed. “You do, too, if you think about it. It must be that Lieutenant Montmorency.”

“That would make sense,” she allowed.

“Of course it would.”

Soon after Anna had arrived at Orchard Park, she had asked James to arrange a pension for a widow named Mrs. Montmorency and her four daughters, whom she believed lived in genteel poverty somewhere near Gloucester. She insisted that it be disguised as a bequest from a long-lost relative, and the amount should be small enough to deflect suspicion, yet large enough to prevent them from suffering want. He could tell Lucy, but no one else. When James had tried to question Anna, she had turned withdrawn and pale, saying it was a private matter.

James had told Lucy about it that night and they had puzzled over it together. He had set up the pension and made a few discreet inquiries, discovering that the ladies were the mother and sisters of a Rifle lieutenant missing and presumed dead since late in the summer. James’s conclusion, which Lucy had thought likely, was that he and Anna had planned to marry when her mourning period was over, and that out of devotion to his memory, Anna had determined to provide for his family.

So it was logical to believe that they had anticipated their intended vows, but Lucy couldn’t quite discard her own theory. “She didn’t say she
loved
the father, but that she
loves
him. She spoke of him as one living.”

“Surely she misspoke, suffering as she was.”

Lucy shook her head. Anna had been exhausted and in pain, but wholly rational.

“But what else would explain her interest the Montmorency family?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy said. The baby whimpered, and she stroked his back. “You must be right.”

“Here, let me hold him.” James held out his arms, and Lucy passed the baby to him. “Well, laddie,” he began, and she smiled. James was more Scottish than he admitted. “I do hope you’re worth the trouble you’ve caused.”

“He’s a fine baby,” Lucy said. “Not that anything could ever compensate—but he’s a fine baby, quite as much as our girls.”

“He’s our nephew, and it doesn’t matter who his father is, or was. He’ll be christened an Arrington and brought up a Gordon.”

Lucy wondered at his use of his maternal family’s name, and not the hyphenated form his father had adopted upon marrying a lady of lineage far grander than his own. “Not a Wright-Gordon?”

He smiled crookedly. “I’m trying to hope. If Anna lives, she’ll take him to Dunmalcolm and bring him up among the Gordons.”

“It’s just as well Sebastian had no property,” Lucy said. If he
had
left a fortune behind, Lucy would have had trouble reconciling herself to this interloper inheriting it rather than Sebastian’s brother. As it was, he would get nothing from his purported father but a name.

“Indeed. Shall I take the young master to the nursery now? Then I’ll watch with Anna.”

Lucy nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you should sleep. You stayed with her through it all, and you’ve babies to feed.”

She yielded, and they shared a tender kiss before he took their nephew away.

Will awoke to a throbbing head and an aching arm. The last thing he remembered was charging the breach again, and instinctively he tried to sit up. Firm hands pushed him down.

“Calm yourself, Sergeant. I must check your dressings.”

The voice was familiar, though he couldn’t place it. He took stock of his situation. He lay on straw, in a dimly lit room, surrounded by the sounds of men in pain—moans, groans and occasional screams. He must be in some barn or shack turned hospital, and now he recognized the speaker. “Mr. Timperley.”

“The same.”

Will craned his head up, seeking to learn the extent of his injuries. The arm must be bad to pain him so.

When he saw it, a wave of nausea raced through him, and his head fell back against the straw, setting off fresh throbs. But at least he still had a head.

“My God,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you would’ve died else.”

It might have been better if he had. “How can something that’s not there hurt so much?”

His left arm had been sawed off just below the elbow.

“’Tis one of the great mysteries of the body.”

Will was in no mood for pondering mysteries. He was ruined. He couldn’t be a soldier now. What was to become of him? Before the battle he’d promised Dan that he would look after Juana and Anita if Dan fell. How was he to honor that promise?

In what had become a habitual gesture over the past eight months, he reached for Anna’s miniature. But there was nothing there. “Oh, God. Gone. Lost.” He should’ve left it with Juana before the battle. Now he would never see Anna’s likeness again, and he fought the urge to weep.

“I’m sorry about your arm, but you must realize—”

“Not my arm,” he interrupted, too distraught to care if he was rude. “I had a keepsake, something I always wore. It’s gone.”

“I see.” The surgeon frowned. “I’m sorry for that as well, but you
must
understand that you are lucky.”

“Lucky?” How dare he suggest such a thing?

“First, you are alive. Second, you show no signs of shock or infection, so your odds of remaining so are good. Third, you are young and strong, and from what I recall of our journey last summer, rather clever. With your abilities, I needn’t worry that I’m sending you home to be a beggar—unless you take such a fit of the dismals that you decide that’s all you’re good for. And that is why, Sergeant, you must realize you are a lucky man.”

Will didn’t want to acknowledge any truth in the surgeon’s words, but he had himself said much the same thing to other men under similar circumstances. “I’ll think on it,” he said grudgingly.

Mr. Timperley gave him a brisk nod. “Good.”

“Why does my head hurt so?”

“You’ve a knot the size of an egg on the back of it. You must have struck it when you fell. You also have a minor laceration on your right shoulder—purely superficial, I assure you. All in all, I believe you shall do very well.”

“And the battle? Did we take the town?”

“In the end, yes, though I’m not sure it was worth the butcher’s bill. It was the Third Division that made it over the walls at last and opened the way for the rest.”

“The Third?” Will started to shake his head but stilled against the ache that pounded through his skull. “They were a diversion.”

Mr. Timperley chuckled. “You Light Division boys can’t always claim the glory.”

Will tried to smile. But he wasn’t Light Division anymore. The only life he’d known since he was sixteen had been cut away from him with his arm.

Apparently the surgeon realized his slip, for he laid a hand on Will’s shoulder in awkward reassurance. “As I said, you’ll do very well. Try to rest. The orderlies will bring water soon, and something for the pain.”

With that, he left Will alone. Will closed his eyes, though somehow that only made the sounds of misery around him louder. He had always said he’d rather die than lose a limb, but now that it had happened, he found that his animal urge to live remained. Bleak as his future looked, he wasn’t ready to give it up. He still had his duty, in the form of his promise to Dan. As soon as they let him leave this place, he would find Juana. He knew what he must do.

***

Anna felt as if her entire body, even to her eyelids, had been filled with leaden weights. She wasn’t even sure where she was, though she had a vague sense that something significant had just occurred.

With a great effort she opened her eyes, then blinked to clear her blurred vision. Of course. She was in her room at Orchard Park, not in her own bed with its heavy posts and ornate hangings, but in the plain one they had brought in for her confinement. Her heart tried to race, though in her weakened condition it felt more like a flutter. The baby! What had happened to her baby?

Filled with panic, she attempted to lift her head.

“Anna?” A face appeared in her range of vision, and a warm hand seized her cold one where it lay limp on the coverlet.

After a moment she could focus on the face, the anxious dark blue eyes. “James?”

“Don’t ever give us such a scare again!” He looked over his shoulder. “She’s awake!”

“Baby?” she implored, trying to communicate her terror.

James smiled. “He’s in the nursery. You have a fine boy.”

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Want to see.”

James looked away again. “Might she see the baby?”

“Of course.” Anna turned her head toward the sound—it was becoming easier to move, though she was still as weak as a kitten—and saw Mr. Hayden leaning over her from the other side. “In fact, she
must
, for I daresay she won’t rest until she has seen him with her own eyes. But it must be a brief visit only, and then, Mrs. Arrington, you must attempt some to swallow some broth and
rest
.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll get him,” James said, squeezing her hand.

Mr. Hayden and the nurse gently shifted her from her back to her side. As they worked, they told her how fortunate she was to be alive, while taking a certain credit for her luck. Anna hardly heard them. She could think of nothing but her baby.

After what seemed like an eternity, James and Lucy walked in, Lucy carrying a small squirming bundle in a white gown and cap.

“Oh, Anna, I’m so glad.” Lucy laid the baby beside her on the bed.

So new and helpless and tiny. Tears sprang to Anna’s eyes, and she rested a hand on the small body, feeling him breathe and stir as she gazed into his bemused newborn eyes.
Her son.

“I told you,” James said. “A fine boy.”

She smiled but didn’t look away from the baby. New and unformed as he was, he already resembled Will, though he had black Gordon hair like hers. Though it was too soon to guess what he’d look like, she was sure she would always see something of Will when she looked at her son—their son—and that knowledge filled her with heartbroken joy.

“He’s so beautiful,” she whispered.

“Yes, he is,” Lucy agreed.

“Have you chosen a name?” James asked.

She had considered the matter in the weeks before her confinement. “His name is Arthur,” she said.

“For Lord Wellington?” Lucy asked.

“Yes.” If questioned, she could say, with perfect truth, that her son was named for his father’s commander—and never mind that she’d had to go all the way to the top of the army to find someone who’d commanded both Will and Sebastian.

“A fine name,” James approved. “And his second name?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say “James.” Nothing could be more appropriate than to honor her brother. But suddenly she could not bear that the child should have nothing of his father in his name.

“William,” she said firmly. “Arthur William.”

James and Lucy exchanged glances. As common a name as William was, there were none in her immediate family. Anna knew they must be speculating about Arthur’s paternity, but she’d been careful to speak of Will only as Sergeant Atkins. She had given nothing away.

“Arthur William it is,” James said, picking up the baby. “A very fitting name for the king of the nursery.”

***

With the help of a dose of laudanum, Will slept for a few hours. He awoke with the odd sensation that he was not alone—or, rather, even less alone than he ought to have been in the crowded field hospital. Carefully he turned his head and saw Juana sitting on the straw where he lay, a slumbering Anita in her lap.

Juana’s face was newly careworn, making her look older than her twenty-one years, but when she saw that he was awake, she smiled warmly.

His mouth was parched, so he swallowed before he spoke. “Juana. I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head. “I cannot speak of him, not yet,” she said in Spanish.

Will would have liked to talk of Dan, but he bowed to Juana’s wishes.

“I have something for you,” she said. Shifting to free an arm, she reached beneath her bodice and drew out a flat golden oval.

The miniature. She pressed it into Will’s right hand—his only hand—and he closed his eyes and raised it to his lips. His eyes stung with unshed tears.

After a moment he tried to open the locket, but he couldn’t manage the catch one-handed. He shook with frustration, but Juana leaned over and helped him.

“You will learn, in time,” she assured him, “and you could do it now, if you sat at a table.”

He shook his head and gazed at Anna’s smiling likeness. How he loved and missed her! But he was glad she was far away from this hell and glad too that she’d never see him like this, nothing but a broken remnant of the Will she had known.

“How did you get it?” he asked. “I was sure someone stole it.”

“I thought you might not remember,” she said. “You were awake, but raving. I was the one who found you yesterday, after the battle. I took the locket to keep it safe and made sure you got to the surgeons. The men thought you dead, but I had a feeling you were not, so I looked for you.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at what was left of his arm. “I think.”

“Don’t, Will. To be alive is better. It
is
.”

After a moment he nodded. He snapped the locket closed. “Can you help me put it on?” he asked.

She set Anita down on the straw beside him. The baby stirred, but did not wake, and Juana took the locket and slipped its cord around his neck. He sighed at the familiar feel of the gold, smooth against his skin where it belonged.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“Go home—what choice do I have?” But this was not the time to give way to bitterness. He had made a promise, and now he must honor it. “What will
you
do?”

She shrugged. “Stay here. I have no home to go to.”

Will had suspected as much. Women with loving families or money enough to live upon weren’t part of the baggage trains of foreign armies. Even if Juana had family, they would hardly welcome her now. She and Dan had never married, since they had no absolute proof that the wife he had been forced to abandon on the retreat to Corunna was dead. So Juana was not even an Englishman’s widow in the eyes of her countrymen; she was a foreign soldier’s whore, and Anita a bastard. She had no choice but to stay with the army, where she must choose—or be claimed by—another man.

Will knew only one way to be sure that man would treat Juana well and bring up Anita as his own daughter. “Juana.”

“What is it, Will?”

“As soon as they let me out of here, we can find a chaplain to marry us.”

She had been hovering over him with sisterly affection, but now she jerked back. “Are you mad?”

“I promised Dan I’d look after you.”

“Did you promise to marry me?”

“No. Only to protect you until you were ready to choose another.”

“So why do you ask me?”

“Because I can’t stay here to watch out for you now.”

“Do you not trust me to choose well?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Of course I do! But it isn’t always a choice. You know that.”

“Sí,”
she acknowledged.

“And we won’t be in Spain forever.” Will switched to English, feeling too exhausted to think in Spanish and aware that Juana would understand him. “Dan would’ve found a way to take you with him wherever the regiment was sent, but another man might not. What would you do then, and what would become of Anita?”

“We would manage.”

“If we marry, you’ll have a home in England. I’d love Anita as my own. My family isn’t grand, but we’re not poor. Anita would have some schooling and marry a respectable man someday. Don’t you think Dan would rather have her there, happy and safe, than here with no name and no future?”

Juana’s eyes shone with tears, but she shook her head. “All that is true, but I cannot marry you. No.”

“Why not?”

“You, you are like my brother.” She smoothed his hair. “Today that is enough. But that will not always be so—for either of us.” Her eyes flashed. “You cannot think that I will marry a man who wears another woman’s picture around his neck! I will not be tied to a man who wishes I were someone else.”

Such passion from practical Juana amazed him. Time had not dimmed his love for Anna, though she was lost to him forever. And surely it would be better for Juana to marry with some degree of affection than to take her chances with the army. “It’s not as though I’ll ever see her again,” he pointed out.

“But I could never compare to her.”

“Will anyone ever compare to Dan, for you?”

She stared across the room, her eyes unseeing. “I loved Dan. I wish I could mourn him for a long time. Maybe always. But I cannot, and I would rather go to a man who wants
me
, than to one who sees me as his duty, but loves another so much that he kisses her picture as some men kiss their wives.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Come to England with me regardless. We’ll say you’re my best friend’s widow—it’s near enough to the truth—and that I promised to care for you.”

She frowned. “Would it be allowed?”

He smiled. “You know I don’t spend all my pay. I have enough to bribe your way onto a ship, if anyone questions it.”

“But would your family welcome me?”

Will didn’t answer immediately. He’d been so little in his family’s company since enlisting that he truly didn’t know how they would receive Juana. They were kind, but they lived in a narrow world—a world that must soon be his again, though his heart sank at the thought. Would they despise Juana as a Catholic foreigner? Would they assume a woman who had traveled so far with a man not her husband must be no better than she should be, as the saying went, no matter what he told them?