Marrying the Royal Marine (4 page)

It was still on her mind as she prepared for dinner that evening. Only three more days, she thought, as she reached around to button her last button.

When she ventured into the wardroom, Colonel Junot came up behind her and without a word, buttoned the one in the centre of her back she never could reach. The other men were already busy at dinner; no one had noticed.
I can’t even dress myself
, she thought, flogging her already-battered esteem.

Polly had little to say over dinner. For all she paid attention, she could have been shovelling clinkers into her mouth, and washing them down with bathwater. All she could think of was how ill equipped she was to leave England. Probably she should never have even left Bath, uncomfortable as Miss Pym had made her, especially after she had turned down Pym’s invitation to stay and teach the youngest class. At least at the Female Academy, she knew precisely where she stood, in the order of things.

Bless his heart, Colonel Junot tried to engage her in conversation, but she murmured only monosyllables. Before the endless meal was over, even he had given up, directing his attention to war talk, and then ship talk. She was as out of place as a Quaker at a gaming table.

Polly had never felt quite this gauche before, almost as though her spectacles were ten times too large for her face, with every freckle—real and imagined—standing out in high relief. And there sat the Lieutenant Colonel next to her, an officer with handsome features, distinguished hair going grey. He was quite the best-looking man she had ever seen, and what had he seen of her except someone who needed to be cleaned up, held over a basin, or buttoned up the back? She burned at her own failings, compared to Colonel Junot’s elegant worldliness, and longed to leave the table as soon as she could decently do so.

The dinner ended after a round of toasts to the ship, the men, and the King. She was free to go. She stood, and all the men stood out of deference, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was the weakest link at the table.

Polly was only two or three steps from her door, but there was the Colonel, bowing and offering his arm, as he suggested a turn around the deck. She didn’t know how to say no, or even why she wanted to, so she took his arm.

The wind blew steadily from the west, making it the fair wind to Spain her brother-in-law Oliver had mentioned during his last visit to Torquay. Polly breathed deep, half-imagining she could smell the orange blossoms in Nana’s garden, while she wished herself there.

Colonel Junot walked her around the deck, commenting on the workings of the ship, pointing out the phosphorescence in the water, which he didn’t understand, but which intrigued him. She could tell how much he loved the sea, and she felt her shyness begin to recede. He still seemed to be taking care of her, as though someone had given him that role when he first saw her on deck in Plymouth. She knew no one had, which made her feel protected. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to; probably none of Lord Ratliffe’s daughters was.

‘This voyage has been a real trial for you, Miss Brandon,’ he said finally.

She wished he had continued calling her simply Brandon. He steadied her as they went down the more narrow companionway, and into the wardroom again, which this time was full of Marines.

All twenty of the frigate’s small complement of Marines had assembled, each carrying a flask. Private Leonard had borrowed a medium-sized pot from the galley, which he set by her door. He saluted the Lieutenant Colonel and stepped forwards, eyes ahead.

‘Colonel Junot, if we may take the liberty…’

‘By all means, Private.’

The Private looked at her then, flushed, and glanced away, addressing his remarks to someone imaginary over her shoulder. ‘Miss Brandon, there’s nothing pleasant about vinegar. We decided you should have an opportunity to wash your hair with fresh water. With the Lieutenant Colonel’s permission, we decided to give you our daily ration, and we will not take no for an answer.’

He said it practically in one breath, then stepped back. As she watched, tears in her eyes, each Marine poured his drinking water for the day into the pot. When they finished, Colonel Junot went to his cabin and brought out his own flask, adding it to the water in the pot.

‘You’ll be thirsty,’ she protested feebly, when everyone finished and stood at attention.

‘Just for a day, ma’am,’ the Sergeant of the guard said. ‘We’ve been thirsty before.’

He turned around smartly on his heel, and with a command, the Marines marched back to their posts, or to their quarters between the officers’ berths and the crew. Private Leonard remained at his post outside her door, eyes ahead again, every inch the professional.

‘Open your door, Brandon, and we’ll get the pot inside,’ Colonel Junot said.

She did as he directed, standing back as Lieutenant Colonel and Private lifted in the pot, careful not to splash out a drop of the precious fresh water. She had never received a kinder gift from anyone in her life.

The Private went back to his post, but Colonel Junot stood in her room, a smile playing around his expressive lips.

‘Colonel, I could have waited until we reached port. They didn’t need to do that,’ she said.

‘It was entirely their idea, Brandon,’ he replied, going to her door. ‘They only asked that I distract you on deck long enough for them to assemble. Look at it this way: if you ever decide to take over the world, you have a squad of Marines who would follow you anywhere.’

‘Why, Colonel?’ she asked.

It was his turn to look nonplussed. He was silent a long moment, as if wondering what he should say to such a question. ‘Possibly just because you are Brandon Polly, or Polly Brandon. Sometimes there is no reason.’

‘No one ever did anything so nice for me before,’ she said, wincing inwardly because she didn’t want to sound pathetic. It was true, though.

‘No? Not even your sisters?’

She could tell he was teasing her now, but there was still that air of protection about him, as though she had become his assignment for the voyage. ‘My sisters are different,’ she told him, feeling her face grow rosier. ‘They are supposed to be kind.’

He laughed at that. ‘So is mine,’ he confided.

She didn’t mean to look sceptical, but the Colonel seemed to be sensitive to her expression. ‘Here’s how I see it, Brandon—you’ve made a tedious voyage more than usually interesting.’

She couldn’t imagine that tending a female through seasickness qualified as interesting, but she wasn’t about to mention it. She knew she should just curtsy and wish him goodnight. She would have, if some imp hadn’t leaped on to her shoulder, and prodded her. ‘I…I…most particularly like it when you call me Brandon,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Some of the other students at Miss Pym’s had nicknames. I never did.’ She stopped in confusion. ‘You must think I am an idiot.’

‘Never crossed my mind, Brandon.’

She held her breath as he lightly touched her cheek.

‘Goodnight, now,’ he told her. ‘If you need help with your hair tomorrow, I’m just across the wardroom.’

Chapter Four

H
ugh couldn’t say he had any power to encourage the wind and waves, but he considered it a boon from kind providence that Polly Brandon did need his help in the morning to kneel at the pot and wash her hair, while the deck slanted. They decided that his firm knee in her back would anchor her to the pot, and she had no objection when he lathered her hair, and rinsed it using a small pitcher.

The entire operation involved another pot and pitcher, which led him to comment that between pots and pitchers, women were a great lot of trouble. If she hadn’t looked back at him then with such a glower, her hair wet and soapy, he could have withstood nearly anything. He had no idea a woman could look so endearing with soap in her hair. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, of course, which meant she held her eyes open wider than usual, perhaps seeking more depth and more clarity. The effect jolted him a little, because her nearsighted gaze was so intense, her eyes so blue. The shade reminded him of a spot of deep water near Crete where he had gazed long and hard when he was a younger man.

When not coated in vinegar, her auburn hair was glossy. Hugh was half-tempted to volunteer to comb the tangles from her hair, but he had the good sense to strangle that idea at birth. To his surprise, he was finding her uniquely attractive.

Even after two decades of war, he knew enough about women, having bedded them in all seaports when occasion permitted, no different from his navy brethren. By common wardroom consent after one memorable voyage through half the world, he and his fellows agreed that the most beautiful women lived on the Greek isles. He knew at least that
he
had never seen a flat-chested female there. So it went; he was a man of experience.

But here was Brandon—why on earth had he started calling her such a hooligan name?—who, even on her best day, could only stand in the shadow of the earth’s loveliest ladies. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her, and he had seen her at her absolute worst. No woman could have been more hopeless than Polly Brandon of two days ago, but here he was, wanting to devise all manner of subterfuges to keep her talking to him. It was a mystery; he had no clue what had happened in so short a time.

He sat down at the wardroom table, hoping to keep her there with him while he thought of something clever to say. To his dismay, she went into her cabin, but came out a moment later with her comb. She was getting more surefooted by the hour, timing her stride to the roll of the ship, but she did plop unceremoniously on to the bench and laughed at herself.

She fixed him with that penetrating gaze he was coming to know. ‘You have my permission to laugh when I am no more graceful at sea than a new puppy would be.’

‘I daren’t,’ he said. ‘Suppose some day you find me in desperate shape—say, for example, at Almack’s? I would hope you would be charitable, so I will be the same.’

‘Coward,’ she teased. She unwound the towel, shook her head, and began to comb her hair. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but when he didn’t, she took the initiative. ‘Three days at sea and my manners have taken French leave, Colonel. Miss Pym always did say I was too nosy by half, but what are
you
doing here?’

Admiring you
, he thought. That would never do; perhaps honesty deserved its moment in the sun. ‘I shipped out to the Peninsula because I could not stand one more moment of conference meetings in Plymouth.’

‘You’re quizzing me,’ she said with a laugh.

‘Well, no, I am not,’ he contradicted. ‘I probably should have turned down my promotion from Major to Lieutenant Colonel, but one doesn’t do that.’

‘No harm in ambition,’ she told him, trying to sound sage, and blithely unaware how charming was her naïveté.

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Trouble is, a step up means different duties at Division Three. Now I am chained to a desk and report for meetings, where I sit and draw little figures and yawn inside my mouth, so my tonsils won’t be seen.’

She laughed and touched his sleeve. Just one quick touch, but it made him pleasantly warm. ‘Colonel, I used to do the same thing in theology class, where God was so cruel as to make time stand still.’

‘Exactly.’
Well, aren’t you the charming rogue
, he thought.
No vicar for a husband for you, I should think
. ‘As with most things, there is more to it than that. I went to Stonehouse Hospital to visit the newest arrived Marines invalided there. One of them died in my arms, after wishing there was something more he and his fellow Marines could do to end this stalemate with Boney. I chose not to let his sacrifice be for naught.’

Polly nodded, her face serious. He continued, ‘I asked permission of the Colonel Commandant to conduct impromptu visits to various ships off the Peninsula, and in Lisbon where a Marine brigade is based. I want to find out how the men feel about what they do, and if, indeed, we Marines could do more. Brandon, these are men with vast experience, who surely have ideas! I have
carte blanche
to stay as long as I wish, and then compile a report. That is why I am here.’

She looked down at her hands, then up at him over her spectacles. ‘We are both running away, aren’t we, Colonel Junot? I could have stayed in Bath and taught the younger pupils at my school, or at least stayed in Torquay and helped my sister Nana, who is increasing again.’

‘But you want to see the wider world, even such a tattered one as this is proving to be, with its everlasting war?’

She frowned, and he could tell she had considered the matter. ‘I think we know I don’t belong here. Maybe I should have stayed in Torquay.’

Then I never would have met you
, he realised. It was such a disquieting thought that he wanted to dismiss it. He chose a light tone, because that was all he could do, and even then, it was wrong to his ears. ‘If it’s any comfort, I felt the same way at my first deployment in service of King and country.’

‘When was that? Where did you go?’ she asked, her interest obvious.

What could he say but the truth, even though he knew it would age him enormously in her eyes. ‘It was 1790 and I was bound for India.’

‘Heavens. I had not even been born,’ she told him, confirming his fear.

Get it over with, Hugh
, he told himself sourly. ‘I was fifteen and a mere Lieutenant.’

She surprised him then, as she had been surprising him for the three days he had known her. ‘Heavens,’ she said again, and he cringed inwardly. ‘Colonel, I cannot imagine how fascinating India must have been. Did you see elephants? Tigers? Are the women as beautiful as pictures I have seen?’

She didn’t say a word about his age, but calmly continued combing her hair, her mind only on India, as far as he could tell. He felt himself relax. ‘Do you want to hear about India?’

‘Oh, my, yes, I do,’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘Colonel, I have never been anywhere!’

‘Very well,’ he began, eager to keep her there. ‘We landed in Bombay during the monsoon.’

‘You were seasick,’ she said.

‘I told you I have never been seasick,’ he replied, ‘and I meant it.’

‘Very well. Since I was not there, I shall have to believe you.’ She put her comb down and clasped her hands together. ‘Tell me everything you can remember.’

If some celestial scamp in the universe—an all-purpose genie would do—had suddenly whisked away all the clocks and banished time to outer darkness, Polly knew she would be content to listen for ever to Colonel Junot. While her hair dried, she and the sentry who joined them at the Colonel’s suggestion heard of tiger hunts, an amphibious storming of a rajah’s palace in Bombay, and of the rise of Lord Wellington, the ‘Sepoy General’. India was followed by Ceylon and then Canada, as Colonel Junot took them through his Marine career.

It became quickly obvious to Polly that he loved what he did, because she heard it in his voice. She saw it in the way he leaned forwards until she felt like a co-conspirator in a grand undertaking. His storytelling had her almost feeling decks awash and seeing rank on rank of charging elephants and screaming Indians, as he told them so matter of factly about what he did to support himself. He was capability itself.

Through years of indoctrination, Miss Pym had pounded into her head how rude it was to stare at anyone, especially a man, but the Colonel was hard to resist. A natural-born storyteller, he became quite animated when he spoke of his adventures, which only brightened his brown eyes and gave more colour to his somewhat sallow cheeks—he had obviously spent too much time the past winter sitting at conference tables. She was having a hard time deciding if his finest feature was his magnificent posture and bearing, or his handsome lips, which had to be a throwback to his French ancestry.

Colonel Junot was different, she knew, if for no other reason than that he found her interesting. As she listened to him, injecting questions that he answered with good humor, Polly discovered she was already steeling herself against the time he would bow and say goodbye.

‘And that is my career, Private Leonard,’ Colonel Junot concluded, looking at them both. ‘Private, as you were. Brandon, excuse me please.’ He rose, bowed to her, and went his stately way up the companionway.

‘I live such an ordinary life,’ Polly murmured, watching him go.

She went on deck at the end of the forenoon watch, pleased to notice the chair she had sat in yesterday had been relocated to its original place, which probably meant there would be no gunnery practice today. She had brought a book topside with her, something improving that Miss Pym had recommended. She decided quickly that a treatise on self-control was a hard slog on a ship’s deck where so much of interest was going on. She was happy enough to merely close it, when what she really wanted to do was toss it into the Atlantic. Maybe that wasn’t such a shabby idea. Book in hand, she went to the ship’s railing.

‘Brandon, I hope you are not considering suicide.’

She looked around to see Colonel Junot. ‘No, sir. This book is a dead bore and I am about to put it out of its misery.’

He took the book from her hand, opened it, rolled his eyes, then closed it. ‘Allow me,’ he said, and impulsively flung the thing far into the ocean. ‘I hope you were serious.’

‘Never more so,’ she told him firmly. ‘It was a gift from my aunt, who was headmistress at the female academy I attended in Bath, and—’

‘I should apologise then for deep-sixing it,’ he said, interrupting her.

‘Oh, no. Don’t you have any relatives who annoy you?’

He thought a moment, then he laughed. ‘Who doesn’t!’

Walking with more assurance back to her chair, she seated herself, giving the Colonel every opportunity to nod to her and continue on his way. To her delight, he pulled up yesterday’s keg and sat beside her.

‘Brandon, give me some advice.’

‘Me?’ she asked, amazed.

‘Yes, you,’ he replied patiently. ‘Under ordinary circumstances, you appear quite sensible.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she teased, and put a hand to her forehead like a seaman.

‘I have told you what my aim is on my fact-finding mission.’ He must have caught the look in her eye, because he wagged a finger at her. ‘Don’t you even presume to call it “taking French leave from the conference table”.’

‘I would never, sir,’ she said solemnly, which made him look at her suspiciously.

‘Seriously, Brandon, how can I approach Marines?’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Colonel, you would know far better than I!’

‘I don’t. On this ship, for example—which for our purposes we will call “Any Frigate in the Fleet”—I communicated my wishes to the Sergeant, and he passed them to his men. Everyone is stiff and formal, and I can almost see their brains running, trying to work out what it is I
really
want to know.’

Polly thought about what he had said, but not for long, because it seemed so simple. ‘Can you not just sit with them as you are sitting casually with me? Tell them what you told me about the dying Lieutenant, and what it is you wish to do. Look them in the eye, the way you look me in the eye—you know, kindly—and tell them you need their help. Why need you be formal?’

He watched her face closely, and she could only hope he had not noticed her odd little epiphany. ‘You
are
kind, you know,’ she said softly.

‘Thank you, Brandon, but no one can get beyond my rank to just talk to me. There is a larger issue here, one I had not thought of: this may be the first time in the history of the Marines that an officer has actually asked an enlisted man what he
thinks
.’

‘That is a sad reflection,’ she said, after some consideration. ‘Everyone has good ideas now and then.’

‘We never ask.’

He was looking far too serious, as though his good idea in Plymouth was already on the rocks. She put her hand on his arm, and he glanced at her in surprise.
Just two days, and then you are gone
, she thought. ‘I told you, you are kind. Don’t give up yet. You’ll find a way to talk to the men.’ She took her hand away and looked down, shy again. ‘When I was so desperate, you found a way to put me at ease.’

‘That was simplicity itself. You needed help.’

‘So did the Lieutenant who died in your arms, Colonel,’ she told him, finding it strange that she had to explain his own character to him, wondering why people didn’t see themselves as they were. ‘Just be that kind man and you will find out everything you want to know.’

She stopped, acutely aware she was offering advice to a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines, who, under ordinary circumstances, would never have even looked at her. ‘Well, that’s what I think,’ she concluded, feeling as awkward as a calf on ice.

He nodded and stood up, and Polly knew she had not helped at all. He put his hands behind his back, impeccable. ‘I just go and sit on that hatch and call over the Marines and speak to them as I speak to you, Brandon?’

‘You could take off that shiny plaque on your neck and unbutton your uniform jacket,’ she suggested, then could not resist. ‘Let them see you have on a checked shirt underneath.’