Carla Kelly (3 page)

They started forward again, moving carefully on the slick road, so deadly for the mail coach. Nez looked back at the driver. Now, there is a man who knows he will be looking for another situation quite soon, he thought. I wonder if the company will prosecute him for the passenger’s death? He dismissed the thought; it was none of his concern. And yet . . . he cared for his horses. I hope the company is not too hard on him.

Odd thoughts, he told himself. When did I ever concern myself with a mail coach driver before? And yet . . . he has to feed himself. Perhaps he has a family. He rested his hand gently on his niece’s head.

The rain let up slightly, but there was no question of speed. He watched the side of the road, looking for the woman and child, but saw no one. She must have taken shelter somewhere, he thought, and directed his attention to Sophie, who was stirring restlessly now. In another moment she was crying. “Oh, honey,” he whispered. “We’ll stop soon.”

He looked out the window then, and there was the woman, picking her way cautiously along the edge of the highway. She carried the child, and across her back was slung a large knapsack, the kind carried by men of the artillery batteries in Spain.

He felt no charity. We cannot be that far from Stokely, he told himself. She does not know I am looking for her. Luster doesn’t see her. I am too concerned for Sophie to stop, and truly this would be a nuisance. He leaned back and said nothing. He felt a twinge of conscience, but experience told him that it would pass soon enough.

“Your Grace, there she is!” Luster had spotted her. “Thank goodness! She is carrying such a burden.” He looked at Nez. “You do wish me to stop the carriage, don’t you, Your Grace?”

He didn’t, but he did not wish the double combination of Luster’s studied disfavor and Sophie’s illness to plague his evening. One at a time was enough to manage. “Of course, Luster. Careless of me to overlook her.”

The moment the shallow words were out of his mouth, he wished he had not said them. Thou shalt not attempt to bamboozle thy butler, he thought. I am surprised that Moses did not carry down that counsel from Sinai. “Do stop the carriage, Luster,” he said, trying to make it sound like the plan was his, and knowing that he fooled no one.

Luster banged on the carriage roof with surprising vigor, and Nez knew that his butler was irritated with him. He leaned back out of the wind and rain when Luster opened the door and took down the step.

“I say, miss, do join us,” Luster called. “Come, now, it is all right.” He leaned back inside the carriage, his face wet. “Your Grace, I do not think she wishes to come, and that would be a terrible shame. Imagine how wet she is.”

And imagine how wet this carriage will be if she does join us, he thought. “I wouldn’t think we should argue with her, Luster,” he murmured.

“I wish that you would try, Your Grace,” Luster said. Something in his tone made Nez’s face burn.

Flogged into action by a look, he squished toward the woman. “Let me give you a ride to Stokely, the next village,” he said, coming close so she could hear him.

To his irritation, she backed away at his rapid advance, but not before setting down her child and standing in front of him. She wore no gloves, and her hands were balled into fists. “Look here, Miss, Mrs. . . . I mean you no harm,” his irritation dissipating at the look of unease on her face. “The coach driver back at the accident told me to transport you to Stokely. Please, now, we’re all getting wet.”

Still, she hesitated. “It is not as though you have an array of choices spread before you,
dama,
” he snapped. And why in God’s name did he address her as
dama
? She was poor and wet, scarcely a lady. Maybe it was something about the set of her shoulders. “Please.”

“It will be as you say,” she replied finally. She knelt to speak to the boy, then shouldered the artillery kit and took his hand.

I do know that accent, he thought. He wanted to take her arm because the highway was so slick, but she did not move closer. He shrugged and headed back to the vehicle. What is a woman from Spain doing here on the road to nowhere? he asked himself. I rather hope she follows me now.

Chapter Two

“Oh, she’s a rare one,” he muttered to Luster when he got back into the carriage. “I think she was going to strike me if I came one step closer to her ragged little boy. Thank God Stokely is so close. I believe she is Spanish.”

He sat down, and felt the rain beginning to seep through his many-caped coat. Disgruntled, he watched Luster help her into the carriage, and sit her down. She pulled the hood back from her face.

As the carriage started—too slow for him, especially now that he was a reluctant Samaritan—Nez glared at the woman who tried to make herself small in the corner of his carriage. He noticed the number 19 on the ammunition bag that rested at her feet. I remember the Nineteen, rather, he thought, interested. A pity they were shot to pieces at Quatre Bras, even before we got to Mont Saint Jean. We could have used them.

He looked at her face, wet but full of character, even to his critical eye. Spanish women, whatever their degree, have that look, he told himself. From habit, he compared her to Libby Cook, but decided comparison was unfair. She could never achieve the kind of English complexion that was Libby’s birthright. Her skin was the off-white of southern Spain, her eyes brown. It wasn’t her eyes that caught his attention as much as her heavy eyelids, which gave her a sleepy, restful look. Perhaps she is tired, too, he thought, more charitable now. She wiped her boy’s face with the end of her sopping cloak. Her lips were well defined, and full, and he wondered how they would look when she smiled. Hers was a Spanish face, with that ineffable combination of pride and dignity that seemed the birthright of all Iberian women of whatever class. He could never mistake her for an Englishwoman. That’s it, he thought. Englishwomen are not particularly exotic. He did not think she was much beyond her middle twenty years. He had no idea how old the boy was.

“Wiping his face with your cloak will hardly do him good.”

“Sometimes it is enough merely to make the gesture.” Her voice was low and melodious.

He admired her command of English, but didn’t understand what she meant until she touched her boy’s face. It was still wet, and he shivered, but as her wet fingers smoothed his cheek, he smiled. He knows she is doing the best she can for him, Nez thought, touched.

Nez took off his coat. He knew it was wet, but he also knew it was drier than anything the boy wore. “Here, put this around his shoulders.”

She hesitated, and his irritation returned. Why in God’s name is she so reluctant? he thought, and almost snatched the coat back. No, no. Be a man of charity, Benedict, he told himself. Try a little harder. “I remember Sarpy’s Battery, señora,” he said. “The Neverending Nineteen, eh?”

She looked him in the eye then for the first time. “Yes” was all she said, but she reached for the coat then, as though she could trust him now. When her child was wrapped tight she touched his face again, and Nez felt an odd sensation of envy. I wonder if my mother ever did that, he thought. I would remember, if she had. His irritation lingered, directed now more at himself than at her hesitancy.

He made himself comfortable on his side of the carriage, and only partly watched as she removed her cloak. She tried to wring the water from it, but the matter was hopeless. Instead, she folded it carefully and set it on the carriage floor. He observed her figure, but she was nothing spectacular—no handsome deep bosom like Libby, but not poorly endowed, either. She had the waist of a woman who had born a child, and probably never quite returned to her former dimensions. I wonder where her husband is, he thought. He remembered the Nineteen at Quatre Bras against Ney and knew the answer to that one. But why are you in England, madam? he thought, even though he knew he would never ask, he wondered why she had not returned to her own land. This acquaintance ends at Stokely. Augusta would say I know enough low company without increasing the census.

“I regret that we cannot make you more comfortable, Miss . . . Miss,” Luster was saying. Good God, man, Nez thought. Don’t further the relationship!

“It is not important,” she said, her voice so low. “I am Liria Valencia.”

He knew she spoke to Luster, so he said nothing. “Mrs. Valencia?” Luster said. When she shook her head, Nez rolled his eyes and glanced at his butler with a half smile. Lord God, a drab and her bastard dripping wet in a Knare family carriage, he thought, then was quelled, nailed, and nearly fractured by a cold look from Luster. The glance was so pointed, so rude from a servant, that he almost gave a sharp reply. He stifled his retort when Sophie woke and began to cry again.

He patted her shoulder. “There now, Empress,” he said. “We’ll be in Stokely soon, and I will find you a warm room.” He knew he said it almost to spite the woman, as though he really said, “But not one for you and your bastard.” He did not look at Luster.

Sophie only cried harder. “Dear me, Luster,” he said finally, “do you have any suggestions, or must we all suffer?”

Before he finished speaking, the Spanish woman knelt beside his niece. He opened his mouth to protest such familiarity, then closed it as she smoothed her hand down this child’s cheek, a child she did not even know. As he watched first in surprise, and then in deepening shame, she leaned forward until her cheek was against Sophie’s. She began to hum a little tune he remembered from campfires long ago in Spain. In another moment, Sophie was silent. He watched the woman then, and found himself admiring her dark hair coiled at the nape of her neck. How tidy she was, despite the rain.

When Sophie slept, Liria returned to her side of the carriage, and gathered her son to her side. She closed her eyes, and he knew she had no wish to make any conversation with him. She knows just what I think of her, he told himself. Well, Benedict, isn’t that what you intended?

He observed the boy. He knew the child was younger than Sophie, but he sat quietly, enveloped in the riding coat. Nez could see little resemblance to the woman. His eyes were lighter, and his complexion, as well. He did share her self-contained expression, which Nez thought unusual in a child not so far distant from babyhood. He seemed accustomed to finding himself among strangers. Nez had to grudge that his manners were excellent for one so young.

I suppose he has learned to be quiet in some corner when his mother services men, Nez thought, then dismissed the idea as unworthy of him. Truly there was nothing about her to indicate a woman of low fame. Nez closed his eyes.

They didn’t remain closed long. Sophie sat up and started to whimper. Before he could react—not that he knew what to do anyway—the woman knelt before his niece again, this time her hands on both sides of the Sophie’s face.
“Pobrecita,”
she said. “Are you not feeling good?”

Sophie shook her head, and leaned toward the woman. “My little brother has spots all over him.”

“Ay de mi,”
the woman murmured. “Perhaps you will have spots, too?”

Sophie’s lips quivered. “My uncle has promised me that I could climb trees at Knare.” She started to cry again.

Before Nez could offer any objection, Liria Valencia edged herself onto the seat next to him and put her arm around his niece. “My dear, I am certain this will pass. The trees will probably be there all summer.” She hugged Sophie to her, and Nez saw the surprise on his niece’s face. I doubt anyone has ever hugged her like that, he thought. I know it never happened when I was growing up.

Sophie settled against the woman. “You’re wet,” she murmured.

“Close your eyes,” Liria whispered. She glanced at Nez, a question in her eyes.

“Sophie,” he said, and then added, “she thinks of herself as the Empress, but Sophie will do now. Right, Sophie?”

Sophie nodded and closed her eyes as Liria gathered her closer. In another moment, she slept. When she was breathing evenly, the woman gently lowered her to the seat and took her own place in the opposite corner of the carriage next to her son. Again she sat so properly. Perhaps she has been a lady’s maid, and fallen on hard times, Nez thought, remembering the turmoil of Spain. No, not a lady’s maid, he amended. Only the lowest of the low ended up trailing after the British soldiers. Still, she seemed to have learned English and manners from some source. I rejoice that it is not my concern, Nez thought.

Sophie was crying in good earnest as Stokely came into view. The Spanish woman cuddled his niece on her lap and sang to her softly, with no hint of irritation. Her son had made himself comfortable on the seat with his head in Luster’s lap, as though this kind of confusion was his lot in life. And it probably is, Nez thought, trying to keep his own calm at Sophie’s tears. “How do you do it, Miss Valencia?” he asked at last, in spite of himself.

“What cannot be remedied, must be endured,” she said in Spanish. “Do you know this proverb?”

He did. “It seems that I heard it over and over from Lisbon to Toulouse,” he replied. “I cannot confess that I found it entirely satisfactory. Oh, heavens, Sophie, give over! She’s doing the best she can!” he exclaimed in exasperation.

“Perhaps it helps to be Spanish, to understand that
dicho,
” she replied, and then put her cheek close to Sophie’s again.

“You would be the judge of that,” he said as he succumbed to the woman’s calming influence. “Still, I apologize. Soon you will be able to wait for the next mail coach in peace and quiet. Oh, don’t look daggers at me, Sophie!”

“Uncle, we are chagrined at your total indifference to our welfare,” Sophie managed to say with some dignity.

“. . . Must be endured,” Liria said under her breath, and Nez could have sworn that her dark eyes held just the hint of humor.

He could not immediately recall ever seeing a more welcome sight than the Rose at Stokely. His carriage had hardly pulled to a stop before he took Sophie from Liria Valencia and carried her inside. In mere moments he had arranged for a sitting room and two bedrooms, one for him and one for Sophie, and a cot for Luster in his dressing room. With one more breath he ordered dinner.

Before he started for the stairs, Luster turned to Liria, who had followed him inside with her son. “My dear Miss Valencia, we thank you for your kindness,” he said with a slight bow.

Oh, doing it too brown, Luster, Nez thought. “Yes, indeed, we appreciate your help,” he said when Luster looked at him. “I’m sure the landlord will allow you to wait here for the mail coach.”

Liria nodded. She took his coat from her son and handed it to Luster. “We are grateful for your assistance, sir. Come,
mi hijo.
” With a nod to Luster, and a nod to him, they went into the public room.

He watched her go. “Don’t you think it a little odd, Luster,” he began, then stopped.

“Your Grace?”

“She didn’t seem to expect anything from me.”

“Perhaps she knew she would get nothing, Your Grace.”

He sighed. “Should I have offered a gratuity?”

“Possibly, Your Grace.”

“Or was the ride enough?”

“Perhaps, Your Grace.”

I am in the dumps with my butler, he thought, as he carried Sophie upstairs. “Luster, you know I am not at my best in situations like that! I did give her the ride. At least allow me that.” He was embarrassed to continue, knowing that he would not have stopped the carriage if Luster had not caught sight of her, too, and equally aware that his butler knew. “You know I am concerned about Sophie.”

“Indeed, Your Grace, and you are to be commended for that.”

Oh, ow, coals of fire now, Nez thought. “Well, she will be on her way soon.”

By the time the doctor had come and gone, by the time the apothecary had delivered a large bottle of calamine lotion, and by the time Sophie had rejected everything placed before her for dinner, Nez knew some force had singled him out for punishment. He did not know where to begin. He sat on Sophie’s bed as she wailed, remembering not-so-distant days when he had splinted two soldiers in his own regiment as they stood firm at Mont Saint Jean.

“Luster, I do not know what to do about Sophie,” he said at last. “It’s really not my place to doctor her.” He glanced at his butler. “Do not go pale on me! I think we are both inept.”

His butler hesitated. “Your Grace, if I may suggest . . .”

He thinks I do not want to hear this, but I am desperate. “. . . that perhaps the mail coach has not arrived yet?”

“If we are far more lucky than we deserve, Your Grace.”

“You are too charitable, Luster; than
I
deserve. Do you think that she will overlook how rude I am?”

“With any luck, Your Grace.”

He hurried downstairs. He had not heard the coachman blowing his yard of tin, but Sophie was noisy enough to cover all that. Please let her be in the public room, he pleaded with the Almighty, who may or may not have been inclining his ear toward Stokely at the moment.

She was not there. “Damn,” he said softly. “Damn.”

The public room was full, and the landlord leaned on the high corner, listening to a customer.

“You there, sir,” Nez said, raising his voice a little, but not much. He knew how to get people’s attention.

“Yes, my lord.”

At least you have glanced at the register, Nez thought. “Did the mail coach come?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then, where is the woman who came with me? The one with the little boy?”

The landlord indicated the doorway behind him. “Washing dishes. My help quit and she wanted to buy a meal.” He laughed. “Your old meal, my lord.”

So you’re hungry, Liria Valencia, Nez told himself, as his shame returned. Too bad I didn’t have the kindness to ask. Libby would have. With a nod and bow to the landlord, he went through the door into the kitchen. He heard the landlord say something to him, but he wasn’t interested.

There she was, a kitchen towel wrapped around her waist, belly up to the sink. Her small son stood close to her with a dish towel and a cup in his hand. He smiled at Nez and waggled the cup at him. Liria spoke to him over her shoulder in Spanish. “Have a care,
niño,
” she said. “If you break it, I must wash more.”

She wasn’t aware of him, he was certain, so intent on the mound of dishes before her. The boy dried the cup, then sat down for a moment—no denying his wistful expression—to stare at the remains of the meal he had picked over, and Sophie had ignored. The meat juices had congealed, and the potatoes were brown and wilted, but the little boy admired the food.