Carla Kelly (10 page)

He knew exactly what she was thinking. She will do anything for her son, he thought. If I say yes, she will ask me if she can stay on as a maid. She knows that she does not want to throw herself on the mercy of a textile mill in Huddersfield because of what it might mean to Juan. “Was the sergeant a good father to Juan?” he asked.

“He was not his father.”

He stared at her, amazed, because he could tell from the look on her face that she had not meant to say that, even though he knew that she told him the truth. It shamed him to know that he had startled the truth out of a woman who must know that the truth only made her appear less acceptable than ever. And now you think I am judging you and wondering, how many men has this woman known in her young life? Say the right thing for once, Benedict, he ordered himself.

“Was he good to Juan?”

He could almost feel her relief.
“Sin duda, señor,”
she said. “Without a doubt.” She hesitated. “And he was good to me.”

“But . . .” he stopped, knowing he would be rude to ask more of an employee. It would be impertinent.

“You are wondering why I did not return to Spain, after the sergeant . . . after he died?” she asked.

Nez shook his head. “I should not have pried as much as I did, Miss Valencia. I hope you will forgive me.”

“
Claro.
I assure you that I will perform my tasks here with all propriety.”

He knew she meant it, and he also knew that she was dismissing him. He nodded, and went to the door. He opened it, then turned around. “Humor me,
dama.
Why didn’t you return to Spain?”

“I have no relatives there anymore.”

“None whatever?” he asked, surprised. “All are dead?”

She managed the ghost of a smile, and again it made her look young, even more young than her nineteen years. “Let us say, I am dead to them. Good night, senor.”

After chatting for a few minutes with Luster—what he said he had no memory of even as soon as it left his mouth—Nez went upstairs. Too restless for sleep, he went into the Grand Gallery and sat down to stare at his relatives, the saints and sinners on his family tree. “What are you trying to tell me, Liria Valencia?” he asked as he gazed at his mother’s portrait.

He nearly went to sleep there on the sofa, except that no sofa in Knare was particularly comfortable, other than the one in the library. He got up finally to go to bed, and looked out the window. Lights were still on in the armory.

Remembering that Liria had told him that Amos Yore was in love with Betty, he thought it best to clamber up the stairs, whistling as he went, and then knock and pause before he entered. Amos looked up at him with a smile, and set down the polishing cloth. “Major, you needn’t be so heavy-footed on the stairs. Betty went to her own bed hours ago,” he teased. “After all, her father is your gamekeeper and a far better shot than me.”

Nez laughed and sat down on the workshop bench. “When are you going to marry her?” he asked straight out, abandoning forever any disinterest in his servants.

The smile left Amos’s face. “I haven’t asked her, Major. Don’t think I will.”

“Miss Valencia assures me that Betty loves you.”

Amos picked up the rag again. “Her folly, then.”

“Sit down here beside me, Amos,” Nez ordered. “Put away that rag, look me in the eye, and tell me why that’s not the greatest idea.”

Amos sat down. On the space between them, he plopped his half leg up on the bench. “That’s why,” he said softly. “Don’t you think a girl as pretty as Betty can find a man with all his parts? I do.” He rubbed the stump.

“Hurt?”

“Not much. Sometimes I think it’s still there, that if I look down quick enough, I’ll see two shoes on the floor instead of one.” He shrugged. “Betty can do better.”

“I’m no expert, but I’ve noticed something about women, Amos. Sometimes they see things we don’t.”

He took a deep breath. “The lady I loved threw me over for a stout, nearsighted bumbler with a medical degree! And I’m rich, handsome,
and
sober, possessing a Waterloo medal and an estate with at least three peacocks.”

Amos laughed, and Nez joined in. Still chuckling to himself, the armorer got up and leaned against the workbench again. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

“As one soldier to another, Amos, you’ve got both arms, and no one shot your balls off! Luster tells me Betty always has little pies and tarts just for you. Close your mouth, Private, and that’s an order! It’s not because she pities you; she loves you.”

Amos was silent then, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I know you have a nice quarters off the armory because I had it refurbished,” Nez went on. “I also pay you well, because if I didn’t, one of my brother soldiers would probably snatch you away to his own estate, and we can’t have that.” He got up and put his hand on Amos’s shoulder. “I can’t order you to do anything, Amos, because I don’t command you anymore. You work for me, but your opinion is yours. I’m just suggesting”—he chuckled—“encouraging you to take a deep breath and just do it. Don’t miss out on the best thing you’ll ever do because you’re afraid.”

Sounds good, Benedict, he thought. Too bad no one ever took you in hand with such terrific advice. He patted the other man’s shoulder, then released him. “Well, sir?”

“You’re probably right, Major,” Amos said softly. “She’s a wonderful lass.”

“Of course she is! She was raised on my estate!” Nez teased, knowing that Amos needed the light touch now. “I’m never wrong about these matters.” He went to the door. “Don’t you have a wooden leg, Amos?” he asked.

“It doesn’t fit well.”

“I’ll have the surgeon here in the morning. Maybe the padding’s insufficient.”

“You’re determined, aren’t you, Major?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Have you written to Allenby yet about Sergeant Carr?”

“A week ago, Major.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

“I will, Major. And, sir, when am I to wish you happy? Betty’s brother at Ash Grove says that Sir Michael is telling the world that you’re courting Miss St. John.”

“What? Oh! Yes, I am. Well, no news yet, Private. You first.”

He went down the stairs slowly. Well, Libby, maybe I’ve accomplished another small thing or two. Juan is happy, I think, and Amos might propose. But Liria—I don’t know about Liria. I may have made things worse there. Why is it that I take two steps backward for every step forward?

He was a long time thinking about Liria before he finally allowed himself to sleep. Even then, he dreamed of Badajoz and woke up too early, breathing fast with his fingers tight around his pillow. He lay there and forced himself to think of that place, the city three times besieged and finally captured by hard men who had lost too many friends. Dear God, the troops did celebrate, he thought, and the warm shame of it washed over him. Surely not. She was barely fourteen then, hardly more than a child.

The thought of it brought him out of his bed and on his feet in practically one motion. He wrapped a blanket about himself and stared out the window. He was still standing there when Eliza came in with his hot water and told him good morning.

Chapter Eight

He had little appetite that morning but he ate anyway, not relishing a scene with his cook, who had been known to come upstairs, tragedy written all over him, to wring his hands when anything was returned belowstairs uneaten. Besides, his sister had created a crisis recently about a baked egg. He ate his accustomed meal, but it might as well have been cork from a Portuguese tree.

He knew he had no liberty to say anything to Liria about his realization; indeed, he knew he would not know what to say, because she had indicted so little. Perhaps I am wrong to read so much into a few words, he thought. He tried to tell himself that she may have just witnessed the soldiers. That would not exactly explain Juan, now, would it, Benedict you cloth head, he told himself sourly. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his plate far enough away to allow him to lean on the table with his elbows, his chin in his hands.

I turned my own men loose, he thought. I did what the other officers did, and winked at what I knew was going on in back alleys, and even some open doorways in the broken town. And there was Beau Wellington, winking, too! We all did, damn us, for two days. How long that must have seemed to Liria! He rested his elbows on his knees.

“Your Grace?”

He looked up in surprise, forgetting that Haverly was standing against the back wall, directly behind his chair. He waved him away. “I don’t require any assistance, Haverly,” he said, and wished that his voice did not sound so weary. And now I suppose you will go belowstairs and announce to all present that I am monstrously hungover, and that the master is up to his old ways again. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Haverly replied in a voice as uncertain as Nez had ever heard. “I could get you some fresh tea or . . .”

“I don’t want anything!” Nez shouted. He swept his arm across the table and sent the crockery, food, and silverware crashing against the wall. “Haverly, leave me alone!” He felt ashamed of himself even before the door closed quietly.

He knew that Haverly would speak to Luster, and he was not surprised when he heard the familiar two taps—one moderate, one louder—on the door only minutes later. “Come in, Luster,” he said. “Come in.”

His butler entered the room. He stood still in surprise, staring at the broken dishes and glassware, and the greasy spots on the wallpaper. Nez dared him to say anything, but Luster merely looked, frowned, and then committed the unpardonable sin among butlers by seating himself on the next chair. Nez stared in amazement. “I have never seen you sit in my presence, Luster,” he said.

“I fear, Your Grace, that the chicken pox has sapped me more than I care to admit. I trust you will overlook my lapse of decorum.”

“If you will be so kind as to overlook mine,” Nez said.

“Done, Your Grace.”

Nez blinked in further surprise as Luster gave him a lengthy, appraising look, something else he had never done before. “Your Grace, you must reassure me that you have not begun to drink again,” he said. His voice was even and low, and Nez could not help but think of earlier, painful interviews with his own father. I should resent this, he thought. I should also say nothing, because I know so little. I also know that if I do not tell this to someone else, I will begin to drink again.

He leaned forward, took a deep breath, and told Luster every suspicion he had. It pained him to see his old butler go so shockingly pale that his chicken pox scars stood out like hives on his bloodless face, but he knew he could not keep silent. “For two days, that’s what good King George’s troops did to Badajoz, Luster. The troops called it Baddyhof. We turned our men loose on the women and children and went back outside the walls. I even went to sleep. God! How could I sleep? But I did, Luster, oh, I did.”

Nez wished he would not, but Luster got up and began to pick up the china from the floor. He nearly stopped him, then realized that the man had to occupy himself. “Luster, you have led a sheltered life, indeed,” he said, his voice soft, as he came over to help his butler. He plunked the sausage back on an unbroken plate. “I didn’t mean to distress you, but I had to talk to someone.”

“You’re telling me that a soldier did a terrible thing to Liria?” Luster asked, as though he could not believe such a thing.

Nez sat back against the wall. “Luster, we turned loose whole troops of men, and they hunted in packs!” He knew his voice was rising, and he tried to contain himself. “I know you can’t imagine such a thing, but . . .”

“No more, Your Grace,” Luster said. “Oh, do forgive me for interrupting you.”

“No, I’ve said enough. I don’t know that’s what happened to Liria, but I strongly suspect so.” He sighed and got to his feet again, lifting the window sash to lean out and take several deep breaths. “If you only could have seen the look on her face last night! And have you noticed how she shies away from coming too close to men?” He leaned farther out the window and vomited in the bushes, retching and gagging until he thought he would bring up his stomach lining.

He stayed at the window in utter misery until there was nothing left to throw up except his toenails. Luster left his side, and he could hear a whispered conversation in the corridor. In another moment Luster was back with a warm cloth for his forehead. He let his butler lead him from the window and sit him in a chair.

“And I was going to leave her in the rain, Luster,” he said at last.

“I daresay she has already forgiven you for that, Your Grace.”

“And the other?” he said harshly. Tears started in his eyes.

Luster did an extraordinary thing then that Nez knew he would never forget, not even if he became the oldest man in England someday. The butler placed his hands—oh, they were so cool—on his face and looked deep into his eyes. “
You
did not do a terrible thing to Liria,” he said, his words crisp and bracing.

“No! I didn’t!” Nez agreed. He did not try to stop the tears.

“And you never would,” Luster continued. “You have not the nature for such a thing. Not even in war, Your Grace. You’re far too good a man for that.”

“Am I, Luster?” he asked, feeling like a child seeking approval from his parent.

“You are.”

It was enough, and he knew it. Without saying a word for several minutes, he allowed the tears to slide down his cheeks. Luster kept his hands cupped on his face, in so tender a gesture that Nez felt the heart come back into his body. They stayed that way a moment more, master and butler, and then Nez shifted himself and Luster released his grip. He wiped Nez’s face one more time, then turned back to the dishes, stacking the broken pieces neatly onto a tray that he pulled from the sideboard. Exhausted, Nez watched him. “What do I do now, Luster?” he asked finally.

“First, Your Grace, I recommend that you return to your bed and sleep awhile. When you wake up, I think you might consider how you can find out something about Liria Valencia. Does it strike you that there may be far more to her than we think?”

He nodded, and got to his feet. He swayed slightly, dizzy with tears and emotion, and smiled at the alert way that Luster watched him until he was in command again. “I wish Richard Carr were alive,” he said. “We could ask him.” He shrugged. “She told me last night that all her relatives were dead, Luster.”

Luster covered the broken china with a cloth. “That was what she said?”

Nez thought a moment. “Well, no, not precisely. She said, ‘I am dead to them.’” He leaned against the wall, so tired. “I think we were conversing in Spanish. I may have misunderstood her. Or, if it was English, she sometimes makes mistakes. No,” he said, suddenly decisive. “She said, ‘I am dead to them.’”

“Your Grace, there is a great deal of difference in the two ways of putting it.”

He did go back to bed, but not before meeting Sophie and Juan, coming down the stairs as he was going up. He smiled at them, hoping that he did not look too ravaged. To his delight, Juan grinned at him and stuck out his foot.

“Oh! You’re wearing your new shoes.”

“Claro, señor,”
the boy said. “I think I will take them off, though.”

“Why would you do that, Juan?”

The boy looked at Sophie, who nodded. “Senor, we are going to help the goose girl today.” He leaned closer until his words tickled Nez’s ear. “She doesn’t wear shoes, and we don’t want to make her feel bad.”

“You’re right to think of the goose girl, Juan. Just leave your shoes by the front door. Haverly will see that they do not go anywhere.”

Juan leaned against him for a long enough moment for tears to well in his eyes again, and then he hurried down the stairs after Sophie.

“Do you have some paper with you, Juan?” Nez called. “I know that you should draw at least one goose today.”

The boy patted his jacket, then pulled out Sergeant Carr’s artillery record. “It fits in my pocket, senor,” he said.

“Good. Good day, and don’t drive my goose girl to any acts of desperation!”

He did sleep then, until long after noon. When he woke, he had no firm idea what to do. He dressed again, looking out his window at the formal gardens below. Their tranquil order and the brave blooms of June restored him to some semblance of his own order. The summer’s traveling visitors have arrived, he thought as he stood at the window, tying his neck cloth. “The garden is a tribute to you, Mama,” he said, remembering the rather formal arguments his parents had indulged in regarding the expense. Foolish, spendthrift Mama, who had a predilection for beautiful clothes, and primrose and box elders. She who could spot a well-made bonnet in a milliner’s window at a hundred yards, could also talk soil and compost with her head gardener.

He saw the magnificent result before him, and it was as though he saw it with new eyes. He watched one couple strolling at leisure down the graveled path, pausing to admire the well-organized beds of pansies. To his delight, the lady put her arm around the waist of the man accompanying her. Nez smiled as the man tilted back the bonnet she wore, looked around briefly, then kissed her cheek. “Oh, good for you, sir,” he said. “It’s that kind of a garden.”

He thought of Audrey then, and wondered if he should invite her to stroll there with him. Of course I should, he considered. He knew he wouldn’t, at least not now, when he wanted no conversation. Audrey was so witty and quick that he knew she could not be silent. It can wait, he told himself. What I really need to do—and I should have thought of this sooner—is take Liria down there. She needs to know what her duties are, regarding our estate visitors. That’s it, he thought as he left his room.

She answered his summons and appeared in the open doorway of the bookroom. “Good afternoon, senor,” she said with a smile and a curtsy. “Would you care for some luncheon? I could have it brought here, if you wish.”

“Thank you, no I . . . I was a trifle indisposed this morning, and do not wish to challenge my digestive system, as of yet. Please sit down, Miss Valencia.”

He could not overlook the wary look in her eyes, even when all else about her was calm. She did not so much hesitate to do as he said, but paused, just one beat overlong. He knew he could overlook her hesitation, because it may have been his imagination. “I think I should acquaint you with the workings of the estate in summer. Yorkshire seems to be a favorite touring ground for my countrymen with leisure, and Knare is a principal delight to many.”

She leaned forward. “People just wander about your grounds, senor?” she asked. “I cannot imagine such a thing.”

“It must be an English eccentricity,” he said, taking his cue from her serenity and relaxing a little. “You indicated in something you said once that you were raised on a great estate near Bailen. Do the Spanish have this custom?”

“No. On my . . . on that estate, the orange groves march right down to the
estancia.
Oh, sir, you must remember what it is like: the interior courtyard is the place of beauty, but only for the family living there.” She held out her hands. “We are a pragmatic, practical people, senor, not given much to touring.”

He stood up and reached for her hand. “Then, I have been sadly remiss! Come with me, Miss Valencia, and let us stroll in my gardens.” He watched her face closely, and the hesitation he dreaded was there. To her credit, she allowed him to take her hand, if only until he came around the desk and then gestured toward the corridor. She said nothing as they walked together down the hall, and out the back entrance to the terrace that overlooked the gardens.

“I’ll only take a little of your time,
dama,
I promise,” he told her as they went down the shallow steps.

“Am I to escort your visitors around the gardens?” she asked, her voice dubious. “I confess I do not know these flowers, even with labels I see. I mean, there is no jasmine, or mimosa, and not even a small orange. Would I look in vain for avocados?”

It was a small joke on her part, but he seized upon it. “In vain,
dama!
Any road, you could never compete with an Englishman who knows his violets from his Johnny-jump-ups.”

“There is no accounting for the English,” she murmured. “I miss orange trees.”

He saw the longing in her eyes, expressive for a moment. “What you are to do when visitors are shown into Knare’s entranceway is merely to greet them. One of the footmen on duty in the hall will escort them outside, then hand them off to one of the gardeners. I keep a register by the front door that you may invite them to sign.”

They strolled through his mother’s beautiful garden. He wanted to offer her his arm, but he did not have the courage. He was content to match his stride to hers, stop when she wanted, enjoy the sun on his face, and breathe deep of the fragrance of the earliest flowers of June. It was the first time he had walked completely through the gardens since his return from war, and the peace of it all nearly overwhelmed him. “There were times in the Peninsula and then in Belgium that I did not think I would ever live to do this again, Miss Valencia,” he said simply.

She stopped, and her skirt brushed against his leg. He hadn’t realized they were standing so close. “Would it surprise you to know that I was thinking the same thing, senor?” she asked, her voice no louder than his.