The Sergeant's Lady (25 page)

At midday on their third day of travel, the four Dunmalcolm coaches—one for the family, one for the servants and two for the baggage—turned into the yard of the Royal Oak in Market Stretton. Anna wished they weren’t traveling in such state. Her arrival in a carriage bearing an earl’s coat of arms would hardly ease her reunion with Will, nor her first encounter with his family.

She leaned forward and peered out the window, trying to hide her anxiety and eagerness. Will was nowhere in sight, though she thought she spotted a family resemblance in some of the onlookers who had gathered around.

“The place looks well-kept,” Uncle Robert commented.

Anna had never imagined that it would be otherwise, but she looked beyond the people to the inn, a sturdy half-timbered building, ancient but solid. It wasn’t large, but the village was too isolated to support the bustling hostelries found along major roads.

The coach came to a complete halt, and a groom stepped forward and opened the door. Still no sign of Will, though the man waiting behind the groom must be a relation—his hair was the same red-brown, beginning to gray at the temples, and he had similar features.

Uncle Robert stepped down first. By the time Anna had descended, balancing Arthur’s basket in one hand while leaning on the groom’s arm lest she stumble and drop the slumbering baby, her uncle was talking with their host, listing the rooms they required.

“Of course, my lord,” he said, after introducing himself as Timothy Atkins. “All shall be done as you ask. Do you wish a cold nuncheon in your parlor straightaway?”

At Uncle Robert’s nod, Mr. Atkins turned and gave a few quiet orders to the inn’s servants.

Aunt Lilias emerged from the carriage and joined Anna. “Do you see your sergeant?”

“No.” She craned her head to search the inn yard.

“No doubt he’s somewhere near.”

“Uncle,” Anna said, “would you ask—”

“Of course.” Uncle Robert smiled at their host. “My niece was with the army in Spain. While there she met someone I believe is a kinsman of yours, a Sergeant Atkins from the Ninety-Fifth, and he came to her aid when she was in danger. She learned that he’d been wounded and sent home, so we determined to stop here and inquire after him.”

During the course of this speech, Mr. Atkins’ expression shifted from polite interest to surprise to dismay. “Oh, ma’am,” he said, bowing toward Anna, “I’m dreadfully sorry, for I fear you’ve traveled out of your way to no purpose. You’ve come to the right place—Will is my brother. But he isn’t here. He’s gone to India.”

Anna felt bloodless and breathless. “India?” she echoed faintly.

Uncle Robert and Aunt Lilias both frowned at her, the warning look of a parent telling a child to mind her manners, then turned to their host.

“We’re glad to learn that your brother is thriving,” Uncle Robert said, “for so he must be, to undertake such a journey.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And as to it being out of our way,” Aunt Lilias added, “it isn’t greatly so. We come from Gloucestershire and are bound for Scotland. When one travels frequently, the usual roads become over-familiar. It is delightful to see new places, especially ones so lovely as this.”

“You’re very kind, my lady. I’ll tell my brother of your visit when I write him. Now, may I show you to your parlor?”

Anna followed in a daze. Will gone to India? What was she to do?

As she crossed the inn’s threshold, almost stumbling, she heard a familiar voice.

“Señora Arrington?”

“Juana?”

Unbelievable, but there she was, standing in an inner doorway, a sack of apples in her hands.

Anna forgot decorum and hurried to her side. Juana set her burden down and they embraced, awkwardly, for Anna still carried Arthur in his basket. The disturbance woke him, and he wailed a protest. Anna gently set the basket down and picked him up, cradling him against her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Is this your child?” Juana asked at the same time.

“Yes. This is my Arthur.”

“Here, let me look at him.” Juana turned them until the light from the open doorway fell across the baby’s face. “Oh, Señora Arrington,” she said, switching to Spanish, “he is so like his father.”

“He is,” Anna replied in the same language.

“Is that why you came, to show him to Will?”

“
Sí,
only his brother said he is gone to India, and—” A dreadful suspicion dawned. “Are you and he…” Her voice trailed off, as she couldn’t bring herself to say “married.”

Juana smiled, a little sadly, and shook her head. “No, señora. But Dan died at Badajoz.”

“I’m sorry.” She laid a hand on Juana’s arm.

Juana closed her eyes, sighed and opened them again. “I am here because Will promised Dan he would look out for me. Dan only meant for him to watch over me in the regiment, but since he had to leave, he offered to take me with him. It is a better life than always following the army.”

“Of course it is.” Here Juana need never be passed from one soldier to the next, and this tranquil village was a fine place for a child to grow up. “Anita is well, I hope?”

“Very well. She has her
siesta
now.”

“I’m glad.”

“I miss Dan, but this is a good place, and Will’s family is very kind. He told them I was Dan’s true widow.”

“I see no harm in that,” Anna said stoutly. She shook her head. “Will went to India?”

“He is not there yet. His ship was to sail from London today—or is it tomorrow?”

Will in London, and she here, at least four days away! If only she had come sooner. She fought tears on a fresh wave of despair.

“Why India?” she asked numbly.

Juana shrugged. “He did not wish for a quiet life. Captain Matheson got him a place in the Company.”

“Oh.”

Juana shook her head. “You have a beautiful son. I wish Will could see him.”

“So do I. So do I.”

“Are those your parents waiting there?”

“No, my aunt and uncle.” She had all but forgotten them in her amazement at seeing Juana. Now she turned and saw them and Tim Atkins staring at her in bewilderment, as well they might, to see her suddenly embrace an inn servant and talk with her in Spanish.

Before Anna had time to explain, another woman emerged from the kitchen. She was silver-haired but unbent and carried herself with an air of natural authority. Though she didn’t look much like Will, something about her expression and bearing suggested him strongly, and Anna knew this must be his mother.

“What’s this commotion?” the older woman asked.

“Mother, this lady knew Will in Spain,” his brother said.

“Truly?” Mrs. Atkins smiled. “I’m sorry you weren’t a week earlier.”

“I’m very sorry to have missed him,” Anna said, nestling Arthur more closely against her shoulder. Mrs. Atkins seemed shrewd and observant, and Anna would rather she didn’t examine him too closely.

Unfortunately the gesture only drew Mrs. Atkins’s attention. “What lovely hair your child has, ma’am,” she said. “I envy you—I had seven children, and every one of them as bald as an egg for the first year. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

Mrs. Atkins leaned closer. “And a fine, handsome boy he is.”

Anna gave a silent prayer of gratitude that her son had the Gordon hair. With Will not here, it would dreadfully awkward if any of his relations noticed the resemblance. But then Arthur turned toward the stranger who was examining him, alert curiosity shining from his amber-brown eyes.

Mrs. Atkins looked at him sharply, then up at Anna, who could not prevent a blush and a guilty start.

“You knew my son, you say?” she said dryly. “Quite well, from all appearances.”

“Mother,” Tim Atkins said, low but urgent. “Mrs. Arrington is traveling with her aunt and uncle. The Earl and Countess of Dunmalcolm.”

Mrs. Atkins curtsied. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” But there was nothing subservient in her bearing, and she met Anna’s eyes, suspicion and disapproval etched on her face.

Anna muttered some reply and backed away. Tim Atkins hurried Anna, Arthur, and her aunt and uncle into their parlor, but the damage was done. No sooner had the door closed than Aunt Lilias rounded on Anna.

“Anna, tell me that woman is imagining things!”

She was almost frantic, bright red spots glowing on her cheeks. Anna almost lied simply to ease her aunt’s mind. But once she had chosen to come here, she had committed herself to revealing the truth. Of course, she had planned for that revelation to occur with Will by her side as her betrothed. Nevertheless, she couldn’t bring herself to lie any longer.

“She isn’t imagining things,” she said quietly. “Arthur is Will Atkins’s son.”

Uncle Robert sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

Aunt Lilias stayed on her feet, though she swayed and leaned against the chimney-piece. “You lay with a—a
common soldier?
”

“Believe me, aunt, Will is quite out of the common way.”

Her aunt made a rude noise. “I suppose after he rescued you, you felt obliged to offer him the ultimate reward.”

“That wasn’t how it happened. I fell in love with him.”

“You fell in love with him,” Aunt Lilias echoed. “A man so far beneath you—”

“My dear,” Uncle Robert said softly, “it cannot be undone. We can only move forward.”

Aunt Lilias took a deep breath. “Indeed. Anna, what did you hope to accomplish by coming here? Surely you must have realized they might see the resemblance. The whole family must have those odd yellow eyes.”

Anna sighed and shifted Arthur to a more comfortable position against her hip. Yesterday Aunt Lilias had praised Arthur’s eyes as
lovely
and
amber
. “I thought Will would be here. I meant—I meant to show him Arthur and ask him to marry me.”

“What?” Uncle Robert sprang to his feet. “Why?”

“I told you. I love him.”

“Well, thank God he’s run off to India,” Aunt Lilias said briskly. “You’ll forget him soon enough at Dunmalcolm. Of course the boy will have to be fostered out, but we’ll find a good, trustworthy family—”

“What?”
Anna took a step back, as if her aunt meant to tear Arthur from her arms on the spot. “Never.”

“Anna, my child, be reasonable. Surely you cannot expect us to bring up the fruit of such an indiscretion as a Gordon of Dunmalcolm.”

“He is
my son
. I will never give him up.”

“You may have sullied your lineage in a fit of temporary madness, but—”

“Arthur’s father is the bravest, cleverest man I know—and infinitely superior to Sebastian, who, I remind you,
died trying to rape a girl,
” she said. “And, besides, my father was a Company servant, and now Will is one, too.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Your father was born genteel, and he didn’t presume to address your mother until he had risen almost to her level. Come, now. The boy will do very well. I’m not proposing that you abandon him at the crossroads. We’ll see that he’s educated, settle a competency upon him, perhaps purchase a pair of colors for him so that he can follow his father’s profession at a more exalted level.”

“No. I will never give him away.”

“Where will you go, then? For you will not bring him up at Dunmalcolm.”

“Back to Orchard Park. I’ll hire a post-chaise from here, and you may be on your way north without me.”

“But will your brother and Lady Selsley accept the boy when they know the truth?”

“They already have.”

“Have they? Well. James has never cared enough about the dignity due his name.”

Tears of anger mingled with grief ran down Anna’s face. That Aunt Lilias, almost a mother to her, could speak so! But when Anna spoke she made her voice level. “I’ll remove the fruit of my indiscretion from your presence. If you please, have your servants separate out our baggage, and I shall hire a post-chaise to take me back to Orchard Park.”

She spun on her heels and hurried out of the room, clutching Arthur to her shoulder. She had been ready to give up her family and Dunmalcolm for Will’s sake, but now she had lost them and Will, too. Lucy and James would take her in; she was not wholly friendless, but she would never see Dunmalcolm again.

And now she must face Will’s kin simply to procure a carriage. She must not weep. She must remain calm and comport herself with respectful dignity.

She turned the corner and all but crashed into Mrs. Atkins. “Oh! I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

“Thrown you out, have they?” There was a faint hint of censure in Will’s mother’s voice, but nothing like the utter shock and revulsion Aunt Lilias had expressed.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Where will you go?”

Anna sighed. “Back to my brother’s home in Gloucestershire. I need to hire a post-chaise.”

“We haven’t anything of the sort in a little place like this, but one of my grandsons will take you to Shrewsbury in the wagon, and you can hire one there.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You’re most kind.”

Mrs. Atkins visibly unbent. “Come, sit in the kitchen while you wait—you look done up, and I daresay you and the baby are both hungry. That is, if you’re willing to sit in an inn kitchen.”

“Perfectly willing,” Anna assured her. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Atkins led her to a spotless kitchen redolent with the aroma of fresh bread. Juana sat near the hearth with Anita on her lap.

Anna inhaled deeply. “Will told me how much he missed your bread.”

She clapped her free hand over her mouth, embarrassed at her thoughtless familiarity, but Mrs. Atkins only raised an eyebrow. “Did he, now? Well, who knows what kind of heathen bread he’ll be eating from now on.”

“My father always said the bread in India was delicious, and he had our cook try to replicate it, but he didn’t know enough about cookery to explain how it should be made.” Anna sagged gratefully into the chair Mrs. Atkins indicated.

“Was your father in India, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, from the time he was fifteen until he was forty. Then he came back to England and married my mother, but I think he always missed India a little.”

Arthur was whimpering and twisting his head toward her bosom, so Anna unfastened her bodice and began to feed him.