Coming Home

© Vonnie Hughes 2010

First published in Great Britain 2010

 

ISBN 978-0-7090-9005-2

 

Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT

 

www.halebooks.com

 

The right of Vonnie Hughes to be identified as author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

 

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Typeset in 10/12.5pt Classical Garamond
Printed in the UK by the MPG Books Group

5 May 1811

 

A
DUST PALL hovered over the Fuentes ridge and the distant village of Fuentes de Onoro.

Colly Hetherington stood alone, rubbing the old sabre scar that snaked down his torso beneath the ragged silver lacing on his uniform. The stiff leg and ugly scar kept his life – and imminent death – in perspective.

As he squinted through the haze, the raucous shouts of his brigade celebrating victory punctured the still air. Brigade-Major Hetherington did not regard the deaths of four officers and twenty-four soldiers as cause for jubilation, but he understood the survivors' need for the affirmation of life.

Today he'd lost yet another good friend.

Year after year the bodies piled up, and year after year he made himself the same promise: make acquaintances not friends. Year after year he broke his promise.

But today when he'd seen Lieutenant Nate Carthew's convulsing body finally lie still, something within him changed. Despair replaced the biting anger.
Enough
, something inside him cried. He'd had enough.

Stony-faced, aching inside, he heard a sergeant from the 60th scream, ‘A pox on Messena!'

‘May the duchess cuckold Rivoli until she's blind!' someone else chimed in.

Bottles of
aguadiente
, contributed by grateful residents from Fuentes de Onoro and Almeida, clashed together.

Colly heard someone scrambling up the slope behind him and spun around, his hand on his short sword.

‘Sir, the baggage train has arrived. There's a letter for you.'

‘For me?' He stared at Lieutenant Worboys in surprise. He rarely received letters. From the day his father had banished him from the
family home, only his grandmother had shown any interest in his well-being. And he had heard nothing from the redoubtable old lady for months.

Then he glimpsed the thickness of the folded paper and stretched out a hand. Of course. The letter would be from John. Lord John Trewbridge had, until recently, been an exploring officer attached to the 71st. Eagerly Colly turned it over. Yes, the Trewbridge seal was affixed. John must now be living at the family estate. Lucky man. Colly had stayed for a short time at Trewbridge after the Corunna débâcle and he could not think of a more peaceful corner of England in which to live.

Slapping at the mosquitoes, he dropped to the grass and propped his back against a spindly cherrylaurel tree.

News from home. His blood surged with anticipation as he ran a dirty thumbnail through the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper.

He read it and damn near choked in shock.

Green trees and green grass. Cold ale. He was going home!

Colly tried to swallow, but his dry throat closed. They trusted him.

He felt tears of weakness welling up and screwed shut his eyes, but the droplets forced themselves from beneath his eyelids. They coursed down the grooves on his face and tickled the corners of his mouth. Swiping at them with a grimy hand he thanked God there was no one around. The last time he had cried was the day his father had told him, ‘We can't trust you, boy. You are lying.'

So he had left; he'd had no choice.

But now he had a chance at redemption. Not with his own family – it was too late for that – but with the Trewbridges. He snatched up the letter again.

Colly stopped reading for a moment to savour John's phrasing. Yes, he remembered the spirited Miss Ninian very well. She had possessed an amazing affinity with animals.

Colly stared into the distance. He was useful here. Two rapid promotions and a cash bonus attested to that. But there were others to take his place.

The Trewbridges wanted
him
specifically.

If he returned to England, and if the Fates smiled on him, (hah!) he might one day achieve his dream of owning a small estate. He gazed into the shimmering heat haze. A lot of ‘ifs'.

He re-read the letter and grimaced, wondering what ‘unfortunate incidents' had brought about the death of Spencer Trewbridge. The man had been a shockingly loose screw, and Colly would bet his last guinea that Spencer's demise had something to do with the dreadful people he hobnobbed with. If even half the stories told about him were true, the Trewbridges were well rid of him.

John, however, would make an excellent marquess when the time came.

Could Colly help John maintain the Trewbridge traditions and assets?

He'd give it a damned good try.

 

Six weeks later, his scars chafing in the vicious summer heat, Colly rode wearily into Porto and headed towards the docks. His Portuguese was execrable, so he waylaid a boy who looked to be in desperate need of a centavo or two. ‘Ah …
com licença, rapaz
,' he stammered.

The boy glanced up, grinning. He'd no doubt heard his language mangled by Frenchmen and Englishmen alike. By a mix of sign language and mentioning ‘
hospedaria puro
', Colly managed to explain that he was seeking clean accommodation. The boy gestured straight ahead, then curved his arm around to the right. At the same time he held out
his left hand expectantly. A boy after his own heart, Colly thought. Keep it simple.

He followed the directions to a weathered, stone
hospedaria
that looked well cared for and asked – again in sign language – for a bath while his uniform was cleaned.

Before booking a berth to England, he intended to make a very important visit. He had no illusions about his appearance, but he wanted to look respectable.

As he shrugged out of his jacket he muttered, ‘Please God, let Juliana still be there.' Juliana with her healing hands and dark eyes full of secrets.

Yes, he knew he wasn't fit to lick her little half-boots. But just to see her once more – he'd travel a lot further than the road between Almeida and Porto for one of those shy, imperfect little smiles from Miss Juliana Colebrook.

 

An hour later, feeling more like a man and less like something blown in on the wind, he strode towards Sao Nazaire Hospital and the woman who'd haunted his daydreams for months. The patients had nicknamed her ‘The Angel of Sao Nazaire' and, to many injured men half-dreaming in laudanum-dulled pain, that was how she seemed – an angel. After wallowing in dust and blood for months, awaking to the graceful, competent hands of Miss Juliana Colebrook had been a miracle for many wounded soldiers.

He'd seen many invitations offered to her, both crude and sincere. And had seen them all civilly declined. His pace quickened. Head down, he nearly cannoned into a wall of red, grey and buff.

‘Brigade-Major Hetherington?'

A group of injured soldiers from the convalescent home were taking the air between the town and the docks. Amongst them he spied one of his lieutenants who'd been injured during a skirmish on the Spanish border three months before.

‘Ah, Lieutenant Davidson – still lolling around I see.'

The freckled youth grinned amiably.

But Colly's words were not a joke. Davidson was one of the slowest men in the army. He would not have been injured if he'd been quicker on his feet. Even more importantly, others would not have been injured. Davidson's bad leg stuck awkwardly out to one side as he stood with his good leg canted to balance his weight.

‘We are waiting to be shipped home, sir.'

‘Is there a ship due?' Colly asked eagerly.

‘Any day now. Are you going back too, sir?'

‘Yes. I've sold out.'

‘
Really
?' Davidson's already protuberant blue eyes bulged even further. ‘I never thought you would do that, sir.'

‘Neither did I, Lieutenant.' No. He had expected to spend the remainder of a very short life on the Peninsula. And when he died, only a handful of comrades would mourn him.

Then Colly realized that all the men in the group were junior in ranking to him and were standing to attention in the scorching sun. A few were wilting. He nodded to them to stand easy and took Davidson aside.

‘Anyone we know in hospital at the moment?' he asked.

Davidson smirked. ‘Only the Angel, sir.'

Colly didn't know what felt worse – the quickening of his heart telling him she was within reach, or the knowing look on Davidson's face. Flushing, he saluted and strode off in search of Miss Colebrook.