Marrying the Royal Marine (7 page)

Brandon was dressed in something light and her hair was again atop her head in that silly way she had of twisting it there with a pencil or skewer. She had already attracted her nephew to one leg, and a darker-skinned youngster of roughly the same age—some Frenchman’s memento—was ready to plop himself down on the other. Her arms were full and her face so pretty in that way of women with children.

How bitter this was. Polly Brandon was precisely the woman he wanted to mother his own children, children destined never to be born because the timing was off, and Napoleon, that bastard, insisted on hogging everyone’s attention and effort.
Brandon, you are the wife I will never have
, he thought.
At least there is no crime in remembering you.

He moved quietly from the shadow and continued his way down the corridor to the convent’s chapel, which had been appropriated as the major ward. Philemon had told him that since the French has desecrated it, the Catholic hierarchy in Portugal had been willing enough, and marvellously patriotic, to turn over the use of major portions of the convent to the Royal Navy as a satellite hospital.

He walked into the ward, looking for Philemon Brittle, and found him in a former lady chapel, seated at a desk, poring over a sheaf of papers.

Brittle smiled to see him and indicated a chair. ‘Feel free to talk to my Marine guards,’ he said. ‘I have them posted in here, as you can see, and by my apothecary, and at each entrance.’

It seemed so few to Hugh. ‘Do you feel secure enough which such a small detail?’

The surgeon shrugged. ‘I confess I do not think about the matter over much. We’re close to the navy wharf for safety—you were there yesterday—and this side of the Douro River is under control. We never cross the river to Oporto proper without an escort, though, mainly because none of your Marines has any faith in the British army’s ability to keep the Frogs away.’

They both laughed, as only a navy surgeon and a Marine could who were well acquainted with service jealousies. ‘I suppose we’re a pack of fools, Colonel,’ Philemon admitted. ‘There’s been no indication of French in the vicinity, but it’s lively enough this summer, with Beau Wellesley on the prowl east of us, and Soult and Marmont playing their cat-and-mouse games.’

‘And here all is peaceful.’

‘For now. My own sources suggest battle soon, although the fleet itself seems quiet.’ Philemon leaned back in his chair. ‘You’d be amazed how this chapel can fill up with army wounded. They’ve taken to shipping us their worst cases, even though this was never intended as an army hospital. The advantage is we can get them off the Peninsula sooner, so it works out. I leave it to the Admiralty and Horse Guards to squabble, and let us alone to heal whom we can.’

Philomen peered closer at Hugh. ‘But you are not concerned about that, are you?’ He paused, but only briefly. ‘Did my wife give you what-for over Polly?’

‘She said my proprietary air was too obvious, and perhaps I should turn my attention elsewhere, since Polly is so young,’ Hugh admitted, miserable and hoping it did not show. ‘I assured her I would be gone soon enough and not likely to return. I admit I was not as nice to Mrs Brittle as I should have been. She still sees Brandon as a child.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Hugh could see a nun standing in the doorway. Philemon nodded to the woman, then rose. ‘Duty calls. Don’t look so glum, Colonel Junot! If it’s any consolation, Laura and I don’t see eye to eye on some matters. Oliver Worthy and I can both testify to the value of persistence, where the daughters of the late and unlamented Lord Ratliffe are concerned. Good day, now. Feel free to roam the place and question whomsoever you will.’

Hugh did, visiting first two Marines in hospital, and then making his rounds of the building, explaining himself and then questioning. The result was more food for thought, and the satisfaction of knowing he was improving in his offhand interrogations. His pleasure in whatever good he might be doing gave way to a gnawing feeling that he wanted to at least glimpse Polly Brandon again, before he made his way back to the navy wharf and his duty.

He passed through the corridor again, and this time was rewarded. There she was now, her hair more decorous, and her admirers grown to include more children and young mothers, some of whom looked no older than his nieces living so peacefully in Scotland on his land. He had heard stories of the French in Oporto, and the terrible prices exacted so often by conquerors.

He hoped he would not frighten anyone, but he had to say goodbye to Polly Brandon. There were a few startled glances in his direction as he crossed the courtyard, but no one scarpered away. To his gratification, Polly rose to meet him, a smile on her face.

They met in the centre of the courtyard, and the sun was warm on his back. The scent of orange blossoms was all around, and the peppery odour of roses, fragrances he knew he would always associate with Polly Brandon, even if he never saw her again, which seemed likely, considering her sister’s vigilance.

‘I approve the shirt,’ she told him with no preliminaries.

‘I’ll pass your encomium on to the Navy Board’s chief commissary, who is probably some poor overworked functionary behind a tall desk,’ he teased back.

How could he have ever though her plain? Were all men, when faced with spectacles, as stupid as he was? If anything, the spectacles gave her an impish look, especially since they always seemed to be perched a little low on her nose.

He couldn’t help himself. He pushed up her glasses. ‘You could probably tighten the little screws in the corner.’

Her cheeks grew quite pink then, and he liked the overall effect almost well enough to kiss her, except it had been ages since he had kissed a woman, and he probably wasn’t all that good any more, if he ever had been.

Why couldn’t he just say goodbye? Just a word and bow and off he would go, back to war. All he could do was stand there, filled with so much regret he wanted to drop to his knees in utter misery.

‘You’re leaving,’ she said quietly.

‘Time and tide, Brandon,’ he told her. ‘I want to talk to the Marines at the wharf, and get on board the
Perseverance
.’ Unable to look into her eyes, he looked at the young women watching them. ‘You are making friends. Are they to be your pupils?’

‘They are,’ she said, ‘and any of the sisters who care to join us.’ She frowned. ‘It isn’t much of a way to fight Boney, though, is it? Not like my sisters.’

‘Be your own person, Brandon,’ he said, not meaning to sound like a Colonel of Marines, but unable to help himself. ‘I mean… No, that’s what I mean.’

‘Grow up?’ she asked him, her eyes on his. ‘And make up my mind about things?’

As he said his goodbye, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he meant something to her. Too bad he had so much to do. Too bad armies were on the march. Too bad Laura Brittle stood in the doorway, watching them.

He wanted to clasp Polly Brandon in his arms. He had watched over her on the
Perseverance
and he was uneasy about leaving her without his protection.
Yes, I am proprietary
, he wanted to shout to Laura Brittle.
Why is it your business?

He did nothing of the sort. ‘Stay off the water, Brandon, and you should be all right,’ he said gruffly, then turned on his heel as smartly as any Marine on parade, and left her standing alone in the courtyard.

Chapter Seven

L
ife at the Convent of the Sacred Name answered every wish of Polly’s heart. She was busy; she was with a beloved sister; she was doing worthwhile work. In the month since Colonel Junot left her so alone in the courtyard, she was everything but happy.

A sensible woman, she assured herself that the pain of his departure would go away. Even her sheltered life in a female academy had taught her that people come and go, exerting their influence for a brief time. She remembered one dance instructor—an Italian
émigré
—whom all the students had swooned over. He left, after a six-weeks’ course of instruction. By the end of the following week, all she could remember about him was his last name and his brown eyes.

Colonel Junot was proving to be more difficult to forget. True, he was handsome by anyone’s standards, made even more beguiling by the unexpected brogue when he spoke. She, who had endured too many years of constant reminder about posture—head up and chin back—could only envy his elegant way of carrying himself. Beyond the superficial, Colonel Junot was stalwart, capable, and kind, and she had never met anyone like him.

That he orbited far out of her sphere was a given, and should have made it easier to forget him. She couldn’t, though. She thought she knew why, but there was no one she could talk to, not even Laura, who had seemed relieved when Colonel Junot was but a distant figure in a scarlet coat, far below at the navy wharf.

I should set Laura’s mind at ease
, Polly thought, as the days passed.
I’m being foolish to even think Colonel Junot has spared a single thought for me since he said goodbye
. Trouble was, she didn’t know what to say, so said nothing, choosing instead to throw herself into the work ordained for her in the convent, trusting to time to smooth away any sharp edges. As the days passed, it did; given another year or two, she knew she could forget Colonel Junot.

The Convent of the Sacred Name had been a large community, before the French desecrated its holiest places, and violated and murdered so many of its gentle inhabitants. Most of the surviving nuns had retreated to the safety of their motherhouse in Lisbon. The few who returned were resolute beings, which made them superbly useful in establishing and maintaining smooth order in Philemon’s satellite hospital.

Essentially, these were women not afraid of anything. Philemon explained it to Polly one afternoon when he had a moment to sit in the courtyard with his little son in his arms. ‘It’s a fine line, my dear. People who endure the worst are either broken by it or strengthened.’ He ruffled his son’s auburn hair. ‘I refer you to your own sisters.’

Polly was not slow to understand. ‘These young girls I am to teach—they seem to always move in the shadows. Where do they fall in the spectrum of what you are saying?’

Philemon passed his hand in front of his eyes, as if trying to brush away terrible visions. ‘So many women were treated so cruelly by the French. Many took their own lives. Others were turned off by their families, who could not manage such shame, in the middle of other misery. Mind you, loss of what they call “honour” is a terrible thing to citizens of this peninsula. Bless their hearts, most of these girls still love their little ones, even conceived in such a way. I own that I admire women, and these brave souls in particular.’

Polly leaned against her brother-in-law. ‘I should be more than a teacher, Philemon?’

‘Aye, much more,’ he replied firmly. ‘Be a friend.’

That was her mandate, she decided, after another night of tossing and turning in her narrow bed. When she rose with the dawn, she decided that was her last sleepless night; there was work to be done. Everyone around her had been affected by war, which made her concerns puny, indeed. War meant sacrifice; it was no respecter of persons. She could understand that. Obviously Colonel Junot did. When he had left her so alone, he had not looked back.

Before she began, she needed an ally. She found her sister sitting quietly on a bench, obviously enjoying a moment of rare leisure. ‘You have a look of enquiry, dearest,’ she said to Polly, and patted the bench.

Polly sat down. ‘I need an ally—someone who speaks English at least a little, so I can communicate.’ She leaned close to Laura. ‘What do you call these young girls?’

‘I’ve been calling them “little mothers” in Portuguese—
pouco mães
—because they have been helping me so materially with Danny. I remind them I could never do my work without their help.’ She sighed. ‘They just don’t quite believe they have any value. Learning English would be a start.’

‘Who can help me?’

Laura sat back, her eyes thoughtful. ‘There is only one woman, Sister Maria Madelena. She is a dragon, but she speaks English and Spanish.’

‘A dragon?’

‘Indeed. I would say she is more Pym than Pym, without the hypocrisy.’

The sisters looked at each other and burst into laughter. ‘Where might I find this paragon?’ Polly asked.

‘Try the old chapel.’

So Polly made her way to the small chapel, which had existed since the Middle Ages. It was dark and redolent of centuries of incense, but there was a small nun, ferociously clicking the beads on her rosary, impatience evident in every contour of her compact body. She must have heard Polly enter, but Sister Maria Madelena did not turn around.

More interested than frightened now, Polly sat down quietly on one of the few benches near the entrance. She looked around her at the simple stations on the cross and wondered how many prayers had risen through the incense-darkened ceiling, low and decidedly pre-Gothic.
What did they pray about then?
Polly asked herself.
The Black Death? Moors at the gates?

Finally the click of Sister Maria Madelena’s beads ended with a finality that made Polly smile, in spite of her fears at approaching Laura’s dragon. Polly jumped when the nun slapped the flat of her hand against the stone floor, as if impatient for God to smile down on the Portuguese, who had been getting the short end of some cosmic stick for so many years now. She turned around quickly and Polly swallowed. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sister Maria Madelena spoke first.

‘I need your help, Miss Brandon.’

Surprised, Polly stared at her for a moment. ‘Actually, I…I…was going to say the same thing to you, Sister,’ she managed to blurt out, unnerved by the jagged scar that ran from under her wimple by her ear, across her face under her nose, cut through the corner of her mouth, and wound up on her neck, where it vanished from sight under her habit.

She would have been almost pretty, but for the scar.
Don’t stare
, Polly tried to tell herself, but it was too late. All she could do was stare, and wish for the first time that she could telescope herself back through the weeks and into Miss Pym’s classroom again, where no one saw such sights.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally. ‘I should not stare. Please forgive me.’

If she expected the dragon to suddenly hiss fire at her, she was mistaken. The woman smiled, or at least, it would have been a smile, except that the corner of her mouth drooped, rendered her more sad than terrifying.

‘Considering Our Lord, these are burdens easily borne,’ she said, the voice of practicality. ‘We have not met, but I have heard your name from the
pouco mães
. Sit, sit.’

Her English was excellent, and she wasted not a moment. ‘My dear, what is it you want of me?’

Polly had to laugh then. She needed to make up for her rudeness, and Sister Maria Madelena did not seem to be one to bamboozle. ‘You asked first, Sister,’ she said, seeing nothing but kindness in the nun’s eyes, belying the fearsome scar.

‘I did, but you are the guest here in our convent,’ she replied graciously. ‘Very well, then. It is not a small thing. Would you be willing to help me at night, when the little mothers cry in their nightmares?’

Polly could not help the shudder that ran through her body. ‘What could I possibly do?’ she asked, when she could speak.

‘Hold their hands. Sit with them until the terror passes. I cannot be everywhere.’

It was simply said, as if she had asked Polly to water the flowers in the courtyard. ‘I will help you,’ Polly said, thinking how Colonel Junot had helped her without a complaint in her worst moments; surely she could do no less. ‘Of course I will help. When do I start?’

‘Tonight.’ Sister Madelena rose quickly. ‘Now I have much to do.’ She nodded at Polly and starting walking briskly to the low door, where she ducked and paused. ‘What was it you came to see me about,
senhorita
?’

It seemed so unimportant. ‘I wanted your help in teaching the little mothers English.’ Polly stood up.

‘Of course I will help,’ Sister Maria Madelena said. ‘When you have their hearts, my dear, by watching over them at night, you will easily engage their minds.’

It sounded so true that Polly could only nod. ‘Your English is excellent, Sister,’ she said. ‘Where did you learn it?’

Sister Madelena looked at her, as if wondering how much truth to tell. ‘I haven’t always been a nun, and I am well named, Senhorita Brandon. I used to be mistress to an Englishman who managed Sandeman’s vineyards. He thought if he talked English loud and slow enough, I would learn.’

‘How is your hearing?’ Polly asked, laughing.

‘My English is better. I will come for you tonight after Compline.’

Polly changed her mind several times before Compline, but when there was a soft tap on her door, she rose at once.

‘Follow me,’ Sister Maria Madelena said, returning with her to the older part of the convent, the section far away from the satellite hospital. ‘At first, Surgeon Brittle thought the little mothers would prefer to be together, so we housed them in the old refectory,’ the nun said. ‘They kept waking each other with tears and shrieks, so we decided on the old cells.’

Polly rubbed her arms, feeling the hairs rise on them. It was the middle of summer, but she shivered. ‘Their children?’

‘They sleep with their little ones, those who have children.’

Even though every fibre in her body screamed out to stop, Polly let herself be led down the corridor to its intersection, where a padded chair had been placed, looking out of place amid the austerity of a much earlier age.

‘Make yourself comfortable here,’ Sister Maria Madelena said, as she fluffed up a pillow. ‘I will be at the other end of the corridor. If you hear someone cry out, just go to the chamber.’

‘And do what?’ Polly asked, utterly unprepared.

‘What your heart tells you to do.’ She left Polly alone.

Polly sat, deeply aware of her utter inadequacy. She leaned back carefully, afraid to make the smallest sound and waken anyone from already uneasy slumber.
You could have stayed with Nana
, she reminded herself. It sounded so cowardly to even think such a thing that she felt ashamed. She thought of Colonel Junot then, and the kindness in his brown eyes when he had told her not to sell herself short. She yearned to see him again so she could tell him she was trying, even as she hoped this would be the night when no one cried out.

She did not get her wish. The smell of incense was cloying but comforting, and there was just the hint of orange blossoms and gardenia from a courtyard they had passed. She drew her legs up under her and rested her cheek on her hand.

Polly sat up, straining her ears. The lowest keening seemed to come up from the very stones on the floor, causing her to clutch at her arms in fear. The sound stopped; she was prepared to swear she had never heard it. When it started again, it was louder, and she knew right where to go, provided she wasn’t too afraid to get up from the chair.

Shame on you. Suppose Colonel Junot had chosen to ignore you?
Polly told herself. She rose, drew a deep breath, and walked down the corridor, pausing at one door, then moved to the next, until she found the right one. She opened it.

The window was tiny, but the moon shone in bravely, casting its light on an empty bed. Alarmed, Polly closed the door behind her, then let out her own cry of terror as someone grabbed her by the wrist.

The young girl had been hiding behind the door, pressed against the wall. She barely came up to Polly’s shoulder, making her wonder what age the French soldiers considered too young to violate. With a great gulp, she swallowed her fear and put her hand on the girl’s hand, not trying to pry off her cold fingers, but just to let her know she had a friend. Whether any of that would be conveyed by her almost-involuntary gesture, Polly had no idea, but it was the only tool in her skimpy arsenal.

Since her Portuguese was non-existent, Polly thought of Sister Maria Madelena’s well-meaning British lover and spoke as softly as she could. ‘You’ve had a fright, haven’t you? You must be tired. Let me help you back to bed.’

She moved, expecting resistance, but found none. Polly wondered if the girl had been sleepwalking. She led her back to bed, tucked her in, and then looked around for a baby. There was no crib. This must be one of the girls without babies that Sister Maria had mentioned. She found a doll made of surgical towels like the one her nephew adored, and tucked it in the crook of the girl’s arm. With a sigh of relief, the girl—scarcely more than a child, herself—rested her cheek against it and closed her eyes as she caressed the towel doll. Polly sat with her until her breathing was slow and steady.

Shaken, Polly returned to her chair in the hall. She sat for only a moment, then hurried to another room, where a shriek was followed by a young child’s startled cry. Polly ran to the room to find a young woman huddled on her pillow, her eyes wide and staring. She had wakened her child, who sat up in his smaller bed, crying. Polly went to the child first, soothing the little boy until he returned to sleep.

Polly sat on the bed, her mind a complete blank. In desperation, she started to hum a lullaby she had heard Laura sing to Danny. To her relief, the girl’s eyes began to close and her head drooped forwards. She resisted Polly’s first effort to induce her to lie down. After two more choruses of the simple tune, she did not object to sliding between her sheets again and closing her eyes. She did not release Polly’s hand until she was deep in slumber.