The Sergeant's Lady (24 page)

“They were,” Anna said calmly. “I’ve never seen a portrait of my father’s parents, however. Perhaps one of them had light brown eyes.” And perhaps they had indeed.

“Well, wherever he got them, they’re pleasing. He’ll be handsome, like all our men.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“It’s delightful to have children in the castle nursery again. Arthur is just over a year younger than Robin’s son, and I’m sure they’ll be great cronies as they grow up.”

“Or great rivals,” Anna said with a smile.

“They’ll be just like brothers,” Aunt Lilias said firmly.

“Exactly—great cronies or great rivals.” Arthur had begun to fuss, and Anna stretched her arms for him. “I believe he’s hungry.”

For a few moments they were silent as Anna settled herself in a chair and began feeding Arthur.

“You’ve changed,” Aunt Lilias said at last.

She looked up from her contemplation of her son’s face to find her aunt regarding her gravely. “It’s been three years,” Anna said quietly. “Three eventful years.”

“I know. But I cannot help missing the girl I knew then—just as I missed your childhood self when you began to be a young lady. You’ll understand, as you watch him grow.”

“I think I already do, a little.”

Aunt Lilias nodded. “And now I must come to know you again. You’re so much more serious now.”

“I should hope so! I must’ve been insufferably giddy and frivolous.”

“Never to me. I always thought you merry and delightful.”

“Dear aunt.” Anna smiled at her. “I trust I haven’t entirely forgotten how to be merry, but I’ve seen so much.”

“You must have indeed, following the drum.” She shuddered delicately.

“That wasn’t all of it,” Anna said, resolving to make a partial confession to her aunt. “Sebastian and I were not happy.”

“I suspected it, from your letters and from, er, the manner of his death. I’m very sorry to have it confirmed. My poor Anna!”

“It’s over now. I—I’m sorry he’s dead, but I’m not sorry to be free of him.”

“And yet you’re a devoted mother to his son.”

Anna felt her cheeks heat, and she looked at Arthur, gently tracing the straight eyebrows and high forehead that were so very like Will’s. She would have loved the baby just as well had he been Sebastian’s son—he would’ve still been
hers
and an innocent. And yet she was glad that it was the man she loved and longed for whom she saw echoed in her son’s face.

“I thought I was barren,” she said when her momentary confusion had passed. “It took so long, and with Great-aunt Sophia and Flora’s troubles…I’m still amazed and delighted that I have him.”

“Perhaps you’ll give him brothers or sisters someday—unless…I know your delivery was difficult, so I hope…”

Her voice trailed off delicately, and Anna shook her head. “The accoucheur assures me there was no essential injury. But I have no desire to marry again.”

“Anna, my child, all men are not alike. I’d like for you to know the happiness I have with your uncle, or that I believe your brother and his wife have found.”

It was dreadful to be compelled to live a lie. She could not marry Will, and to wed another would be a betrayal of her love for him. But she could never explain herself to her aunt. “I know there are good men and happy marriages,” she said. “Yet I still have no desire to make a fresh trial of that state.”

“It would give me great pleasure to have you always at Dunmalcolm.”

“Then you should be glad I wish to remain a widow.”

“I’d be even more glad to know you would be mistress of Dunmalcolm after me.”

“No, aunt! You must stop trying to make a match of Robin and me.”

“But you love Dunmalcolm so.”

“But I do not love
Robin
, at least not as a wife ought to love a husband. It wouldn’t do, aunt. Believe me, it would not.”

“Many women have married for the sake of an establishment.”

“Undoubtedly. But I have no need to do so, and it would be unkind to marry Robin simply so I could be Countess of Dunmalcolm someday, when I cannot love him as a wife ought.”

Aunt Lilias sighed. “Sometimes I think your father left you
too
rich. And don’t think I won’t speak of this again.”

Anna smiled. “How many years have you been married to my uncle? Surely you know that the harder you press a Gordon, the more firmly we pull away.”

Her aunt laughed reluctantly. “I cannot deny
that
. Very well. I’ll leave you in peace, but you cannot deny me the right to hope and pray.”

Will and Juana sat together on a bench in the inn yard, watching the sun set over the hills.

“And so you will leave me behind in this strange land,” Juana said. Her English was growing even better now that she was surrounded by people who spoke nothing else.

She didn’t sound too dismayed, so Will raised an eyebrow at her. “You should’ve married me when you had the chance, then.”

“Is the offer no longer open?”

Will couldn’t speak, though he felt his mouth fall open.

Juana burst into laughter. “Will, your
face!
” She rested a hand on his arm. “Now you understand why I said no.”

“Any man would be lucky to have you for a wife,” he said loyally.

“Unless he still dreams of another.”

“It may be madness,” he said, very low, “but I cannot help thinking—if I can do well for myself, earn enough to live like a gentleman, and if she’s still free…”

“That
is
madness. But I would rather see you mad, so, than as you were after Badajoz.”

He shrugged his left shoulder, stretching his half arm. “I wasn’t quite sorry I’d lived, but I came near to it.”

“I know.”

“Have I ever thanked you enough, for saving my life?”

“
Sí
, Will. You gave me a home.” Juana had been installed as the inn’s laundress, since the village woman who had done it before had grown too old for the work. Will’s mother had been dubious about hiring the strange foreign woman her son had brought home, but after the first week she had pronounced Juana hard-working and reliable. Juana and Anita lived in a room just off the kitchen of the family cottage beside the inn. Anita, who now toddled about on wobbly legs, was the pet of Will’s brother Tim’s children.

“What will you do,” Juana asked, “if you do make yourself rich, only to find that she has married another?”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“You could write to her and ask her to wait,” Juana said practically.

Will shook his head. “No. It wouldn’t be quite proper, and—”

Juana sniffed. “You have already done much that is not quite proper with her.”

“All the more reason we should follow the rules from now on if there’s any chance of—of making the madness come true. Besides,” he said, stretching out his legs, “it
is
madness, after all. I’m far more likely to die of a fever, or to toil my life away and never rise any higher, than to grow rich enough to have any right to claim Anna. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to wait.”

Juana shrugged. “Have it your way.”

“I hope I didn’t break my mother’s heart when I told her I meant to go.”

“No. She is sad, but she told me she expected something of the sort from you.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She said you were always restless, and that you had not changed.”

Will sighed ruefully. “She knows me well.”

“She is your mother.”

“Will you be all right here, once I’m gone?”

“I will miss you, but your family is kind. I like your mother and sisters. And once you have left, everyone will truly believe we are not lovers. I do not want to marry yet, but someday, maybe.” With a smile, she bid him good-night.

Though dusk was falling, Will stayed outside. He had many farewells to make in the next three days before he left for London, where a ship would be waiting at the East India Company docks. So he savored this small time alone to collect his thoughts.

His family had been elated to welcome him home when he’d arrived in England a month before. He’d been delighted to see them, too, and amazed to behold all the nieces and nephews who’d been born in his absence. He’d been less happy to discover how time had changed his parents, how the hale couple in their middle years that he’d left behind had been replaced by a stooped man and a silver-haired woman who increasingly left the Royal Oak’s management in their elder son’s capable hands.

Will almost chose to stay in England for their sake. His brother Tim had offered him a share in the proceeds of the inn, and Squire Bickley had a farm on his lands that needed a tenant. But both offers seemed too much like charity. Tim gloried in the work of running the inn. He would never willingly yield any part of his duties to his younger brother, but only set aside some portion of its income for his support. And there had been too much pity in the squire’s eyes, too many assurances that he could have nephews or hired men to do the physical labor of the farm.

Will didn’t want charity. He still had a sound mind and
one
strong arm, and he wanted to earn his way. So a few weeks after he arrived home, he told his family he was going to London to look in on a friend. He had made his way to East India House and asked to see Neil Matheson.

Mr. Matheson, a serious young man, taller and darker than his brother, had read Captain Matheson’s letter and questioned Will closely about his education and service.

“You’ll do,” he’d said in the end. “You aren’t the usual sort of Company servant, and I’m sure the high-in-the-instep sort will look askance, but I’d never turn aside anyone my brother recommends so highly.”

They had determined that Will should sail on the
Felix
, scheduled to depart the Company’s London docks the first week of September, giving him ample time to say his farewells and get his affairs in order.

And so Will had journeyed home on the mail coach. The night he returned, he’d told his parents of his decision and endured their dismay. Though, now that he thought about it, Juana was right. His mother hadn’t been as shocked as he’d expected and had acted resigned, not heartbroken. He was what he was, and it seemed his family understood him.

He smiled. He still wasn’t used to doing without the arm, and he still cringed from the pitying looks friends and strangers alike gave him. He missed soldiering. But his life hadn’t ended at Badajoz. He looked forward to India and to the faint, mad hope he might see Anna again someday.

***

Uncle Robert and Aunt Lilias stretched their stay at Orchard Park until the end of August. As they prepared to journey northward, Anna tried to display the eagerness they expected of her. But she had still received no word from Helen. Anna didn’t want to accept the possibility that Will could be dead. She could bear never seeing him again as long as she believed that he was still in the world. Surely a spirit like his, so full of life and courage, could not be easily snuffed out. Yet she knew all too well that muskets and mortars killed without discrimination. If anything, men like Will, the bravest of soldiers, ran the greatest risks in battle. So she had regular nightmares of Will bloody and dying under a pitiless sky

On the day of their departure, the morning post arrived as they breakfasted with James and Lucy. James took the letters from Thirkettle and sorted through them, setting all but one aside. “Anna,” he said, his expression unwontedly sober, “this one is for you, in Helen’s hand.”

Anna stared at the letter and hoped she didn’t look as terrified as she felt.

“Do open it,” Aunt Lilias said indulgently. “We’d all like to know what Helen says.”

Anna pushed her plate away—how could she think of food now?—and complied. It was all she could do to prevent her hands from shaking as she broke the seal and unfolded the page. Squinting at Helen’s tiny, dense writing, she skimmed for Will’s name.

At least he was alive. Thank God he was alive. But her heart broke to think of him so badly wounded, forced to leave the regiment he loved. She yearned to be by his side, to take him in her arms and comfort him.

And why shouldn’t she do exactly that? He was no longer beyond her reach.

She looked up to see her family watching her expectantly. “Bad news, sister?” James asked.

She blinked hard and took a deep breath. “Sergeant Atkins lost an arm at Badajoz and was invalided out.”

James, Lucy, and her aunt and uncle all made murmurs of sympathy and mild distress. It angered Anna even though she knew their reaction was normal and proper.

She willed her eyes to stop smarting. She mustn’t weep, not now. “Aunt, uncle, would you be willing to make a slight detour on our journey? He’s from Shropshire, and I’d like to see how he fares.”

They looked at each other and nodded. “We’re in no rush,” Uncle Robert said, “and it’s well-done of you to think of visiting him.”

“A fitting attention after the services he rendered you,” Aunt Lilias said briskly, returning her attention to her breakfast.

Anna thanked them and turned back to the letter. She read the paragraph about Will twice more, then began at the beginning, reading bits to the others while her mind whirled. Will was out of the army now, and though she remained far above him in station, the gap wasn’t as absolute as the gulf between commissioned officer and enlisted man. There was a middle ground, a place for them, if only they could find it.

“What’s the name of your sergeant’s village?” Uncle Robert asked. “Your brother and I are going to consult his maps.”

She started, jolted from her reverie. “Market Stretton. I believe it’s south of Shrewsbury.”

The men stood and left the breakfast room, already debating the route. Aunt Lilias excused herself as well, leaving Anna and Lucy alone at the table.

“May I ask you a question?” Lucy’s voice was level, and her dark eyes shone with grave curiosity.

“You may.”

“You needn’t answer unless you wish. But—is Sergeant Atkins Arthur’s father?”

Anna weighed her reply, but only for a moment. “Yes.”

“I thought so. What will you do when you see him?”

“I intend to ask him to marry me.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh! You’re certain?”

“I am. It’s him for me, or no one at all.”

“I see.”

“Will you tell James?”

“Do you ask that I not?”

Anna shook her head. “I couldn’t ask that of you. Though if you’d refrain from mentioning it until we’re away, I’d consider it a kindness.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll wait a few days. Then, if nothing comes of it, he’ll never know.”

“Thank you, Lucy. But shouldn’t you be trying to persuade me to see the error of my ways?”

Lucy colored faintly. “It isn’t my place to interfere. After all you’ve endured, I’d never dream of dictating for you the terms under which you may be happy. Besides, I’m sure Lady Dunmalcolm will say enough for everyone. She has such high hopes for you.”

“I know, and she’ll be sorely disappointed. Believe me, I hate to cause her pain, but—” she clasped her hands, “—it’s
Will
. If there’s a way for us to marry, I’d give up everyone for his sake.”

Lucy smiled, full of warmth. “Well, I will always regard you as a sister, so I promise you need not give up
everyone
.”

Anna laughed. “Thank you, Lucy.”

“Good luck. Whatever happens, good luck.”

Within the hour Anna and her aunt and uncle, with Arthur slumbering in a basket at Anna’s side, were waving to James and Lucy from their carriage. Anna’s heart pounded. In two days she would see Will again.