Carla Kelly (11 page)

“I suppose we are both veterans, aren’t we,
dama
?” he asked, and started walking again when she did. They passed several couples—traveling visitors, from the look of their clothing—and he could not help noticing the amused glances they gave him. He stopped. “Miss Valencia, is there a leaf plastered to my face, or a vine wrapped around my ear that I am unaware of?”

She laughed, and he felt his heart melt right down into his boots at the sound of it. Oh, Sergeant, he thought, there you are. “Come, now, Liria. What is my problem?”

She stopped and turned toward him. “Senor, your neck cloth is most amazingly twisted. Did you not look in a mirror before you left your room? Your traveling visitors are perhaps curious as to who is the eccentric allowed to roam this
estancia
without a leash.”

He touched his neck, and felt a blush spreading upward. “I was looking out the window when I tied it. Do I need a keeper,
dama
?”

“You need a wife, senor, so it is perhaps a good thing that you are courting Miss St. John. Hold still; I can repair this. Bend down a little.”

He did as she said, holding his breath as she tugged his neck cloth around to the center of his shirt, untied it, and began again. Her wonderful full lips were pursed as she concentrated on the task before her. So close to her, he could only marvel at the length of her eyelashes. Her olive skin was as clear as a baby’s across the gentle rise of her cheekbones. Her ears. He looked closer, and he felt an icy hand squeeze his backbone. The lace cap that usually covered the one he could see had edged upward as she adjusted his neck cloth. He stared at the scar that ran the length of the earlobe and knew that someone in a terrible time and place had jerked an earring from her flesh. He remembered that one of the officers in his regiment had joked that the women of Badajoz could be identified by their bleeding ears. He took a deep breath, and another, and knew for certain that his imagination had not run away with him last night.

“I am not strangling you, am I senor?” she asked.

She did not know what he was looking at, and she was sharing another gentle joke with him. Don’t ruin the moment, Benedict, he ordered himself. With a hand that he knew trembled, he grasped his own neck and gave out a gargling sound that had her chuckling when she gave his neck cloth a final pat.

“There, senor. You can go in any company now, and not cause us embarrassment.”

She stepped away and the moment ended. She resumed her graceful walk, and he fell in with her again, his heart sore. How you must have suffered, and here you are, doing your best to live your life. God forgive me when I whine.

The garden path took them past the maze, and then back to the terrace. He didn’t want to go inside, so he sat down on the top step. She had no choice but to sit there, too.

“You like to be outdoors, don’t you, senor?” she asked.

“Yes,” he agreed, “although I should feel guilty to waste your time, I suppose.”

She shook her head, and returned her gaze to the gardens, which allowed him to admire her Spanish profile, and the handsome way her dark hair coiled at the back of her neck. “I never thought to be in a place like this,” she said finally.

“I hope it’s better than Huddersfield.”

“Perhaps I’ll never know, senor.” She looked at him then, and he saw the old uncertainty in her eyes. “You will let me know if there is anything you need done that I am not doing. I . . . I want to stay here with Juan.”

“So far, so good. My sister claims that my impulsive nature is my worst enemy, but you’ve proven to be competent. You seem to know great houses, and there is always Sergeant Carr’s army management.” The army reminded him. “Oh, I should tell you that we can probably expect traveling visitors to the armory, as well as the gardens.”

“Do I do the same with them?” she asked. “Does Haverly or one of the footmen escort them upstairs to Amos Yore?”

“I think that is best.”

She touched his arm then, which startled him. “I forgot to tell you! Or did you know . . . you reminded me. This morning, Amos Yore asked Betty to marry him. He just blurted it out at the servants’ table over porridge!”

He laughed and leaned back on his elbow. “Over porridge? It’s hard to imagine a more romantic setting, no matter how I try! I do hope she said yes, or he might have to propose again over stew at dinner. Think what that would do to a finicky digestion.”

“Are you never serious?” Liria scolded. “She did accept, and then what did he do but burst into tears.”

“I would say there was plenty of drama at breakfast.”

She nodded. “He told me then to tell you that it was your turn, Senor.”

So it is my turn, he told himself. He got up and brushed off his trousers, then offered Liria a hand up, but she was already on her feet. “You are right, Miss Valencia, and so is Amos. I think I will visit Miss St. John right now.”

“To propose?” she asked, her eyes merry.

The thought unnerved him, even though he knew that was the course he had chosen. “Well, I, ah, Miss Valencia . . .” he stammered.

“You can’t be afraid she will turn you down!”

“Not at all,” he replied, and realized with a jolt that he feared she would accept.

***

If he had thought to spend a peaceful afternoon drinking tea in Miss St. John’s sitting room, he was sorely mistaken. In his effort to make conversation, he mentioned Amos Yore’s proposal to Betty Gilbert over breakfast. Audrey stared at him, laughed, and asked, “Why on earth are you so interested in your servants, Benedict?”

He felt his face go hot with embarrassment. “I care about them, Audrey,” he said, and it sounded monumentally lame to his own ears. “You should have seen Juan last night, so concerned about his shoes, and sad because he didn’t want to put away the broken-down pair that Sergeant Carr had given him. He misses the sergeant.” He stopped. Spoken out loud in the sitting room, the whole matter seemed stupid.

She shook her head and picked up her tatting shuttle again. “Why is it your concern? It’s well and good to give deserving servants every suitable kindness, and an extra fine dinner at harvest, Christmas, and Easter, but beyond that, Benedict, I think you would be interfering.” She looked at him over the spectacles she wore while doing close work. “Perhaps this might be a good time for you to acquaint yourself with the workings of your estate.”

“Too bad it is so infernally well run,” he told her.

He must have sounded petulant, because Audrey set down her tatting. “Have you ever considered a good hobby, like riding to the hounds?” she asked in such kindly tones that he wanted to growl at her and repeat some choice phrases best left in the army.

Lord, woman, how trivial all this is, he thought in irritation, even as he smiled and sipped his tea. “I’m not overly fond of dogs, Audrey. You know that.”

“Ah, yes, and more’s the pity. Perhaps you will be able to overlook your dislike when we . . .” She paused. “I like dogs, Benedict. Horses, too.” She picked up her tatting again and returned her attention to her tatting. He looked up when Sir Michael entered the room unannounced, then rose to his feet to shake his neighbor’s hand.

Sir Michael nudged his shoulder. “Benedict, I stayed out of here as long as I could. Have you proposed yet, lad?”

Nez winced, and Audrey laughed. “Really, Papa, I think you can leave the matter to Benedict. He will have my leave to do so, when I think he is fully reformed!”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked without thinking.

“You know I am quizzing you, Benedict,” Audrey said.

He couldn’t argue with that. It seemed most likely, considering her cheerful nature, but something about her words struck him hard. “How will you know, Audrey?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

She laughed, stood up in that quick way of hers, and sat next to him on the sofa. “You have already abandoned alcohol, which shows such strength of character. Yet, my dear friend, it
is
a bit extreme to give away your entire wine cellar. Why could you not just eliminate some of your drinking? People will think you are a Methodist. Well, never mind,” she continued when he opened his mouth to reply. “We already know that your estate is well run, and that you have hired a competent housekeeper, no matter that she is foreign.” She touched his arm. “When you acquire a useful hobby, I will consider you fully rehabilitated.” She leaned closer. “I can’t agree that your servants are a useful hobby, however. Do find another one, dear Benedict.” She hesitated.

“Say on, Audrey,” he said, feeling suddenly weary.

“I think you should abandon your impulsive nature. And that is all,” she concluded generously.

He stayed a few minutes longer, engaging in the idle chat that had once seemed so unexceptionable to him, but which now struck him as trivial. He shook Sir Michael’s hand, kissed Audrey’s, and left with a feeling of relief. He spent the next hour in his own park, shoes off, and watched Juan draw a goose. He didn’t know how it happened, but after Sophie wandered indoors, Juan still remained on his lap, comfortably tucked close to his chest. “Show me the goose you drew, Juan.”

The little boy opened the artillery tablet and pointed to the small picture he had squeezed next to the cutaway illustrations of canister and chain shot. Nez chuckled. “All I see is an open mouth.”

“That’s all I saw,” Juan said. “Maybe I was too close.” He was silent a moment more, then he turned his head to look at Nez. “Senor, did you take my other shoes to the cobbler?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, first thing,” he promised, “and tell the man to make them good as new.” He looked down at the boy in his arms. “What were your favorite things about Sergeant Carr?” he asked in Spanish.

It must have been a complicated question, because Juan was silent a long time. “He took care of us. He let me ride the caisson, too.”

Nez smiled and kissed the top of Juan’s head. “Good enough reasons, I suppose.”

After dinner, he hurried upstairs to the armory, surprised Amos and Betty kissing, asked if he had heard anything from Allenby, and hurried back downstairs when the answer was a blush and a no. In half an hour, his horse saddled and bridled, he swung up on his mount and left Knare, bound for Pytch. I’m not reformed yet Audrey, he thought. I’m still impulsive. I must know more about Richard Carr. And when I find out more, I will have to eventually ask myself why it matters.

Chapter Nine

“Audrey, I do believe you are correct,” Nez said out loud as he sank with a groan onto a bed in an inn near Lincoln that morning. “I will never be rehabilitated until I have become less impulsive.” He waited long minutes before bending over to remove his riding boots, vowing never to throw his leg over another horse without regarding the possible implication of most of the night in the saddle, courtesy of a full moon. He decided that a wiser man would have taken the family carriage, or at least gone post chaise, then reminded himself that a wiser man wouldn’t be so nosy about his servants.

Audrey had said as much that afternoon—it seemed so long ago now—as he sat in her parlour, sipping tea. He knew that his servants’ lives were none of his business. They were there to do his bidding and keep his estate running smoothly. He had been raised to regard them as little more than furniture, there to serve a purpose, but not to call attention to themselves.

Maybe it happened when he saw Amos Yore, late of his Waterloo brigade, begging on that London street corner, and took him home out of a guilty conscience. Maybe it was later, when Luster lay so ill in the inn, not a butler then, but a man who shared the planet with him and who was too sick to piss without assistance. And then there was kind Tony, who thought that everyone was as nice as he, treated them as though they were, and recommended that Nez do the same.

Bootless now, he stretched out on the bed and watched the sun come up through the open window. Tony, you’ve ruined me, he thought. Thanks to your meddling in my life, I care about the people who serve me. I found a job for Eliza, whose mother was so ill, and who needed the work, even though she was but eight years old. What did I care about that old armory, until I thought it might be just the place for Amos Yore, who probably saved my life fifty times during that long afternoon at Mont Saint Jean. Amos, why did it matter to me that you knew that Betty loved you, one leg or two? Do I really need all those gardeners to tend Mama’s flowers, except that I know times are hard and jobs scarce.

He knew that only an impulsive man would have offered a housekeeping job to a foreign woman with a bastard son. That the matter had been precisely right was equally obvious to him. I am a good judge of character, he decided, and the realization warmed him. I was right about Eliza, and right about Amos, right about my gardeners, right about Liria. I was right to send that money to Private Allenby in Pytch, disguised as a gift from a fictitious relative, even though my solicitor was so disapproving and snitched on me to Augusta. At least I think I am right about Allenby, he amended. We shall see.

He stared at the ceiling and wondered if he had gone beyond the bounds in poking about in Liria Valencia’s difficult life. Audrey would probably say he had, but Tony? Nez was not sure. He smiled then to think of Juan sitting on his lap, and leaning back against him with confidence. It doesn’t matter to Juan that I am a reconstructed drunkard just a year away from the bottle, he reflected. He doesn’t know or even care that my sister and I do not get along. I doubt he has the slightest comprehension of how much land I own or money I have. He just likes me, and I know he would like me even if I did not supply him with drawing paper and crayons, because I know people. This is my gift. Your gift, Sergeant Carr, was to be Juan’s great example.

“He learned from you, didn’t he, Sergeant Carr?” Nez asked out loud. You and Liria, he thought. In the middle of an awful war, you three were a family.

He woke up in early afternoon to the rolling sound of bells from Lincoln’s cathedral, content to lie there and think of Liria. He decided that there must be many fine women in the lower classes who were competent and well mannered, but something about Liria went beyond the place in life to which he would have assigned her, on that first meeting. No servant treated him as an equal, but Liria did. She did not fawn or simper or waste his time, but conducted herself with dignity in such a way that those she supervised sought to adopt those external qualities that made her so pleasing. He smiled. I may end up with the most serene household in all of England, he thought. With a housekeeper like Liria, it may not matter if I ever become rehabilitated.

The thought cheered him up, and he ate a hearty meal. Reason also prevailed, considering that Allenby had the audacity to live in Devon, practically in sight of the English Channel. He knew a good stable in Lincoln and took himself there to arrange for his horse to be ridden back to Knare, and to hire a post chaise. “I’m traveling as fast and far as I can each day,” he warned the stable master. “Do your best for me.”

As anxious as he was to speak to Allenby, he minded the long ride less than he thought he would. He had grown to admire the harsh contrast of the Peninsula, in particular the dramatic scenery of the Rio Tajo around Toledo, but he knew there was no substitute for June in England. He was riding through country he did not know well, but it made no difference. It was England, and he was satisfied.

He was chortling over a quelling religious tract he had picked up in one inn or another when the postboy announced Pytch finally. He sniffed the misty air when he left the chaise. “Ah, lovely Devon,” he murmured, remembering the nursery rhyme. The postboys certainly knew their inns, as well as their livestock. He was soon involved in a late supper that made him want to kiss the cook. When the landlord asked if he wanted anything else, Nez hated to tell the man no. He leaned back in the chair. “You can give me some information, though,” he said.

“Anything, Major,” the landlord said, and Nez was glad all over again that he had signed the register with his army title, rather than as duke, which tended to provoke a level of service and tension at odds with his informal nature.

“Do you know a man named Allenby? He was a private in my regiment. He came into my regiment after several years in the Peninsula, when we were in sore need of replacements. I confess I do not know his Christian name.”

That mere trifle seemed to be of no concern to the landlord. “Michael Allenby, I’ll be bound. He had another brother in the army—in a battery, I believe—but that one died, so you can only mean Michael.”

“The very one,” he said. I wonder if that brother told Allenby much about the Nineteen. I suppose I can ask. “Where may I find Michael Allenby?”

“An easy matter these days. Major, he had a rare good turn of fortune about a year ago, after he was invalided home.”

“Oh?”

“It seems a relative he had forgotten left him a pile of yellow dogs.” He indicated with his head. “Just three doors down he started the Allenby Candy Company. Doubt he’s there now, but you’ll find him in the morning early, I’m sure.” He came closer. “His wife keeps his nose right to the grindstone, she does. She was taking in washing to support them, and I know she doesn’t want Michael’s business to fail!”

He ate breakfast early the next morning, hopeful to see Allenby, and also hopeful that last night’s magnificent fish soup was not a fluke in the culinary output of the kitchen. To his pleasure, it was not. “If the cook ever decides to leave you, do send him to Knare,” he told the keep. He took a last sip of excellent coffee. “I know a duke there who would move heaven and earth to hire him.”

The innkeep laughed. “‘Tis me own ball and chain, Major! How could I part with a woman who cooks like that?”

Three doors from the inn he found the Allenby Candy Company, a modest building by anyone’s standards, but built solid. The sign painted over the door proclaimed what lay within. “Michael Allenby, Owner and Proprietor,” he read out loud.

He went inside and was greeted by the fragrance of peppermint, and something more mysterious. He sniffed. Almond. Just a hint of it, and coming from the corner where that man was lighting the fire under that copper boiler. “Private Allenby,” he ordered in his best brigade voice. “Step away from that pot and give an account of yourself!”

The man gasped, and turned around quickly.

“You can’t salute me, Allenby,” Nez said, stepping forward. “Neither of us is in the army. If you bow, I will not be happy, either. Would you shake my hand? I never have thanked you properly for Mont Saint Jean.”

“I think ye have, Major,” the man said quietly. He wiped his hands on his apron. “I never shook with a duke before.” He held out his hand. “Mind, sir, it’s probably sticky.”

It was. “Very good, Private. I wasn’t a duke then, back in our Spanish days.”

“No, sir. You’ve always just been major to me.” He did salute then and accompanied it with a heel snap that made Nez smile.

“You never were that militarily precise before, Private,” he reminded the man. “As I recall, you were always on report.”

“Aye, sir.” Allenby grinned.

“And you were always watching my back at Mont Saint Jean,” Nez added quietly. “Even after you fell.”

Allenby swallowed and looked away. “That was a desperate day, Major, and weren’t you doing the same for me?” he asked when he turned back. “Mary Ann!” he called, his voice sure and loud. “Bring a chair that’s not sticky!”

In a moment a pleasant-looking woman came from another room, carrying a chair, and with a question in her eyes. “Mary Ann, this is Major Benedict Nesbitt, Twentieth Foot. Drop him a curtsy, dear, ’cause he’s also a duke, God love him.”

“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Allenby,” he said. “I hear you took in washing to support this useless private when he was invalided home. Tell me if he doesn’t treat you right, and I’ll have him broken right down to recruit.”

She stared another moment, then laughed. “He treats me right,” she said in her strong Devon accent. “Your Grace, can I get you anything?”

Nez shook his head. “I just ate. You know, I would like to take with me a pound of whatever it is I smelled when I came in here. Was it almonds?”

“Aye, Major,” Allenby said. “Yesterday we made almond sticks. Today it’s peppermint, and tomorrow anise.”

“Almond sticks? Oh, Lord, I haven’t had those since I was a child. Better make it two pounds. No. Three, and I’ll pay.”

“You have children of your own, then, Major?” Allenby asked as his wife hurried to the counter to measure out the candy.

Nez thought of Juan, and felt the sharpest longing to see him. “No, alas, but I know a boy who would like to sample what you obviously do better than soldiering, Private.”

“I was pretty awful, wasn’t I?”

“Only until it mattered, lad, only until then.” He looked at Mary Ann. “My dear, could I take some of your husband’s time this morning? I can see that you are busy, but since he didn’t answer Private Yore’s letter, I had to ride here from York.”

Mary Ann glowered at her husband. “I told him ta answer that letter straight off, but what did he do but hem and haw and nearly dig his toe in the ground. ‘What do I say to a duke,’ he asked me. Didn’t ya, Michael?”

“I did, Mary Ann, me love.”

“No matter, Mrs. Allenby,” he said. “I didn’t come here to get a husband in trouble. It’s a grand week for a ride, and I also wanted to see your candy factory. Private Yore told me about your good fortune.”

Mary Ann left the counter and hurried to his side. She thrust an almond stick in his hand. “I never knew I married a man with connections! What came ta him ten months ago but a bank draft and a letter about a cousin who died in Virginia, now, then.”

“Amazing,” Nez murmured.

“That’s what I thought, too, Major,” Allenby said. “But I wasn’t to look a gift horse in his mouth, now, was I?” He motioned Mary Ann closer and clapped his arm around her shoulders. “She’s been a candy maker since she was a little girl. We thought and thought, and this is what we decided ta do.”

“Are you making a go of it?” Nez asked.

“Aye, sir,” Allenby said proudly. Mary Ann beamed at him. “Orders come from all over Devon now. Do ye know who’re my best customers?”

“I couldn’t guess.”

“Sea captains!” He nudged his wife, who colored up prettily. “The second thing they crave when they get on land seems ta be candy.”

“That’s enough, now, Michael,” Mary Ann warned. “He’s a duke! Take him inside.”

In another moment he was seated in their sitting room behind the shop. “I won’t waste your time, Private,” he said. “Did Amos tell you in the letter what I was asking?”

Allenby nodded. “Something about a Spanish housekeeper, and Sergeant Carr of the Nineteen. Me brother Tom’s battery.”

“I know. I’m sorry he died, Private.”

“Nearly all the Nineteen did, didn’t they?”

“Yes, and bravely, too. I hired this woman—her name is Liria Valencia—on an impulsive whim, I’ll admit. She’s not one to talk about her past, but I am curious, especially since she has a position of real responsibility on my estate.”

“Stands to reason you’d want to know more.”

“Did your brother Tom ever mention her? I know you visited Tom several times when the Third Division was close by with the Nineteen,” Nez said, and added, “And often sometimes when we weren’t, if I can believe the morning reports.”

Allenby blushed and looked down at the carpet. “Guilty as charged, Major!” He looked up again, and there was a strong gleam in his eyes. “If I’d have known he wouldn’t live past Quatre Bras, I’d have gone more, begging your pardon, Major.”

“And I’d have let you, had I known,” Nez replied. “It doesn’t matter now. I just want to know something about Sergeant Carr. Do you remember him?”

“I do,” Allenby said. “He got on me once about being away from me brigade.”

“Reamed you up and down, did he?”

“Nay, sir, not him! Sergeant Carr could make you feel tiny with a look and a word.”

“Was he a good man? Did Tom like him?”

“He’d have done a jig into hell, had Sergeant Carr asked him,” he said softly. “Like us in the Twentieth, Major.”

It was a compliment that took Nez’s breath away. “Thank you, Private. Now I expect you’ll want me to overlook all your sins and misdemeanors,” he teased.

Allenby understood completely. “I’ll expect you to.”

“Do you remember a Spanish woman with the sergeant? Did Tom ever speak of one?”

Allenby sat back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling for a long moment. Nez felt his heart sink. I’ve run dry, he thought. What did I expect? “I suppose I ask too much.”