Lord Harry's Daughter (16 page)

Chapter
27

Mark, too, felt a need to sort out his thoughts, and saddling Caesar, headed straight for the rocky headland at the end of the bay. The stiff breeze from the ocean and the clouds scudding across the gray sky were likely to keep most people indoors and certainly away from the wind-swept beach. He needed to be alone with his reflections, some of which were most uncomfortable. But as he rode, he caught sight of a lone rider trotting across the fields and away from town. It was later than the customary hour for cavalry officers to exercise their mounts and since few of the inhabitants of Saint Jean de Luz engaged in equestrian pursuits, his curiosity was piqued. He squinted into the distance, trying to make out the identify of the dark figure on horseback, which on clearer inspection appeared to be a woman. The only woman he knew who could possibly be out taking the air in such a manner was Sophia, but he had just left her. That left the only woman besides Sophia whom he had seen riding since he had been in Saint Jean, the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna.

Mark strained to get a better look. The habit was dark, not the eye-catching crimson that the condesa had been wearing the day of their encounter on the beach. However, there was no mistaking the bay mare with the white stocking on the right foreleg.

It must be the condesa, but why? Alone, and heading away from the town, so somberly dressed, it appeared that she was not hoping to encounter Mark or any other cavalry officer whose attention she wished to attract. Mark frowned in puzzlement. It did not add up. The condesa was a woman who thrived on company, especially company of the admiring, masculine kind. So why would she be riding alone, away from the possibility of such company unless she were riding toward something else, but what? Bayonne? The French?
What I find difficult to take is that she is asking all those men such pointed questions about troop positions and troop strengths, and what I find even more difficult to take is that many of them may be giving answers without the least conception as to why she might be asking them,
a nagging voice repeated over and over in his head.

Had Sophia been right in being suspicious of the condesa? Mark could think of nothing but the French forces that could make the condesa head toward Bayone rather than Saint Jean. She was not the sort of person to indulge in a long ride for the sheer pleasure of exercise and fresh air.

He turned Caesar around to ride slowly, thoughtfully, back toward town. There was nothing more he could do at the moment. He was expected back at headquarters and it would be difficult to get close enough now to the condesa without being seen. He would have to come up with some way to discover what she was up to. His days as an exploring officer were not over after all, it appeared.

Sophia might have felt a good deal better if she had known the direction the major's thoughts were taking. As she sat looking out the window she realized that it was not so much anger at the major's accusation of jealously as it was distress that a man who had seemed so close to her in so many ways could take so diametrically opposite a point of view on something as important as the trustworthiness of the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna. Knowing that he disagreed with her so completely was bad enough, but knowing that he ascribed her opinion to some petty female rivalry was almost more than Sophia could bear, and the rest of the day she went about her customary chores, weighed down by a corrosive sense of loss. If she had been able to observe the major's straight dark brows frowning suspiciously at the back of a retreating female rider it would have gone a long way to easing Sophia's unhappy state of mind.

As it was, her mind was soon occupied with other, more serious concerns that evening as Lady Curtis, back from another afternoon comforting the sick at the hospital, complained of a slight fever. “If you do not mind, I shall just have a bowl of soup in my chamber.” She excused herself after greeting her husband and daughter.

“I hope that you are not ill, Mama.” Sophia rose from the chair by the fire where she had been reading a six-week-old copy of
The Times,
delivered the day before.

“So do I, but I fear that I may have contracted something, what with the weather being so cold and damp and there being so much illness at the moment. While the bad weather is a blessing in that it has kept us from fighting the French such a long time that there are hardly any casualties, it has filled the beds with men suffering from catarrh, inflammation of the lungs, and fevers of every sort."

Checking on her mother after supper, Sophia was most alarmed by the unnatural brightness of her eyes, her shallow breathing, and the heat of her forehead. “Do let me call one of the surgeons. Mama. You do not look at all well."

“Nonsense, my dear. They have enough to do looking after all those men. I need nothing more than some rest. A good night's sleep and I shall be right as a trivet in the morning."

But she was not, and Sophia and General Curtis, waiting anxiously for the report of the surgeon they had called in the next morning, had no appetite for the breakfast Jorge had prepared for them.

The surgeon, more accustomed to patching up wounded men than ailing women, was not encouraging. “There is little that anyone can do, except keep her warm and try to get her to drink some beef tea, but I fear it will not be long now. I am sorry.” He spoke bluntly, but not unkindly as a man who had seen too much suffering and disease to waste his and everyone else's time by offering false hope. Before taking his leave, he laid a fatherly hand on Sophia's shoulder, “I would spend as much time with her as I could, if I were you."

“Thank you.” Sophia would barely make out his craggy features through her tears. “If you will excuse me.” She looked at the general, who, his own eyes far from dry, nodded sadly.

The next few days were one long indistinguishable blur of watching and waiting by her mother's bedside, watching the shallow rise and fall of the coverlet or the feverish tossing and turning, waiting for the intermittent moments when Lady Curtis would open her eyes and recognize her daughter or the general, who was a regular visitor, sitting at the head of his wife's bed, holding her hand and staring fixedly at her face.

The surgeon's grim prediction, however, proved all too true. Only a few days after she had come home feeling feverish, Lady Curtis struggled to raise herself from her pillows and turning to her husband and her daughter, whispered, “Take care of one another.” The effort was too much and she fell back gasping for breath. Then, closing her eyes, she fell into a trance, lying so still that Sophia could not be sure she still breathed. A few minutes later, there was no doubt that Lady Curtis was gone.

Too overwhelmed by the suddenness and unexpectedness of it all, Sophia just sat motionless, dry-eyed, not uttering a sound until the general, wiping a hand across his own eyes, rose and, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, urged her to leave the room. “Come, my dear. We can do nothing further here, and you must have something to eat and get some rest yourself."

Reluctantly Sophia allowed him to lead her away. She could not have felt less like eating or sleeping, but she knew the general was right; she could do nothing more, and she would need all her strength to face the ensuing days without her mother's comforting presence.

All of her life, the one thing she had been sure of, the one thing she knew would remain constant in their ever-changing circumstances, was her mother's affection, and now, abruptly and without warning, it had been taken away forever.

Following the general's instructions, Sophia picked at the chicken that Jorge, sighing gustily and muttering
povere senhora
over and over, had prepared for her. Then she lay down on her bed fully clothed. It was impossible to sleep, but she lay staring at the ceiling until the cold, pale light of dawn told her that her first day alone in the world without her mother had arrived.

Wearily she rose and went to dress her mother's body for a simple funeral conducted by Wellington's own chaplain. The duke, upon hearing the news of Lady Curtis's death, had kindly offered the chaplain's services. “I could do no less for a lady who has remained steadfast and comforting to so many of our lads for so many years,” he had responded to the general's thanks.

The general, who had hurried home to tell Sophia of the duke's kindness, left again immediately for headquarters, where he buried himself in his work for the rest of the day, coming home to share a lonely supper with Sophia before retiring.

Sophia envied him his business. There was no doubt that he grieved deeply, but he was able to distract himself with requisitions and supplies, and conversations with fellow officers, while she had no one. Every room in their little house reminded her of her mother—a basket of mending here, an arrangement of dried flowers brightening a bare corner there, the needlework on the fire screen that she had done one winter in Lisbon.

Unable to stop herself, Sophia wandered from room to room, touching the things her mother had touched last, desperately trying to recapture some tangible connection with the woman who had been everything to her for as long as she could remember.

Chapter
28

One gray, meaningless day followed the next as Sophia took over the running of the household, glad to have the extra burden of her mother's duties so that she had less time to reflect on her loss. Dry-eyed, she went through the motions of ordering the meals, overseeing the airing of the linens, the dusting, and the shopping, but inside she felt empty, numb, lifeless.

Encountering her in the street some days after Lady Curtis's funeral. Mark was at pains to identify the vital, energetic Sophia Featherstonaugh in the gaunt, worn-looking woman who passed by him, not even recognizing her until she had passed him.

“Miss Featherstonaugh."

The slender figure, eyes fixed on the ground, trudged on.

“Sophia.” Mark had to catch her arm to get her attention.

“Oh. Good day. Major."

“I wanted to ask you, did you receive...” Mark paused, his heart turning over at the sorrow he read in the large hazel eyes.

“Come.” Without further conversation, he guided her unresisting toward the promenade. It spoke volumes for Sophia's misery that, utterly passive, she let him lead her to the beach, and the lonely grandeur of the Pointe Sainte Barbe.

Neither one spoke until they reached the rocky promontory. At last Mark halted and turned her to face him. “I heard about your mother. I am sorry, so very sorry."

“Thank you.” It was a whisper, so low that he saw her response rather than heard it.

“I know she was everything to you. If I can do anything..."

“No. Thank you. There is nothing anyone can do."

“Sophia.” He felt utterly helpless in the face of her sorrow, more helpless than he could ever remember feeling except for those miserable months when he had watched his own mother fade away before his eyes. There was nothing he or anyone could do for Sophia to help ease the pain of her loss. As a soldier he had dealt with death on a regular basis, and though he never grew accustomed to it, he had learned how to cope with it and to help others cope with it, but only on a military basis. The way he and others handled it was to throw themselves into their jobs, to continue to fight the fight that had cost others their lives. But he could not even offer Sophia this consolation, meager as it was.

He looked into her eyes, dark with hopelessness, but without a trace of tears in them. Mark was willing to bet that she had not even cried—the loss had been too devastating for her to allow herself to acknowledge it or to give way to an emotion so strong that it might completely overwhelm her. “My poor girl,” he whispered, pulling her close to him.

At first her body remained rigid in his arms as she struggled to maintain control. Carefully, he stroked her back until he felt some of the stiffness go out of her. Pulling her closer. Mark slid one hand up her neck, undid the ribbons of her bonnet and deftly slid it off so it hung down her back, then slowly, gently pulled her head down on his shoulder.

For a moment she resisted and then, with a sigh, she gave up. The tension slowly drained from her and she allowed herself to lean against him for support.

“There, there. That is better. You must give in to your sorrow or it will never leave you,” he murmured into the dark curls that brushed against his cheek.

There was no response. He continued stroking her hair for some time, letting her relax against him, absorbing some of his strength, but at last, gently but firmly clasping her arms, he set her away from him. Then, cupping her chin in one hand, he looked deep into the eyes that were still so full of pain and as dry as they had been when he had first encountered her.

“Sophia, my dear girl, it is not natural to resist giving in to grief. Sometimes silent bravery and self-control are not good things, especially if they keep you from living. If you do not acknowledge your sorrow or give in to it now, you will never get beyond it. Believe me, I know."

“You know?” The look of patent skepticism, which almost verged on scorn, was not promising, but at least it was a reaction, and any reaction was better than the lifeless tone and blank expression she had maintained up until that moment.

“Yes, I do. I lost my mother, too, in far worse circumstances than yours, and I was younger than you at the time."

“But that was different. You were young, you had your father and your brother, you had family."

“No, it was worse because I killed her."

That got her attention. “You what?” If there had been skepticism before, there was patent disbelief now. “I cannot believe it, how could a young boy..."

“I did not actually, physically kill her, but I was as responsible for her death as if I had. She was so lonely. My father, who should have known how much she thrived in company, kept her immured in the country at Cranleigh, miles away from the gaiety and society she craved and far away from any of her countrymen. When we did go to town she was a changed creature. She entertained a great deal, especially those attached to the Spanish embassy, for she was eager for news of her family and the friends she left behind in Spain. There was one young man in particular who, homesick himself, delighted in talking with her for hours, not only of common friends and family, but Spanish literature, painting, and music. Now that I look back on it, I realize he was very young and to him, my mother was not only someone who spoke his language, she was the mother and the family he missed back home. My father, however"—Mark broke off as he recalled the icy tones his father's already cold and distant voice took on whenever he spoke of the young Spaniard. How could his father have been so lacking in sympathy or understanding not to have seen a that the boy was simply lonely? How could he have known so little of his own wife that he so badly misjudged her affectionate nature? Mark swallowed hard, and with an effort, continued. “My father, however, only saw one thing—a man who spent a great deal of time with his wife, the Duchess of Cranleigh. Oddly enough, now that I think back on it, he was less concerned with what actually was occurring than with what
appeared—
to be occurring, or, to be more exact"—Mark laughed mirthlessly—"with what he thought the world believed to be occurring."

“But surely you had nothing to do with that."

“No. But I was the one responsible for the final act of the sad little drama. Signer Alvarez also missed his younger brothers and he always asked Mother to let me stay if he happened to call when I was with her. He brought me a toy sword of which I was inordinately proud and naturally, because I was always eager to prove my maturity and my worth to my father, I showed it to him.

“I was bitterly disappointed by his cold dismissal of my new toy, but what followed was even worse. I happened to walk by the library when I heard my father berating my mother for seeing Signer Alvarez. Hoping to defend her, I ran in to tell him that the Spaniard was not the blackguard and traitor my father said he was, but a very nice man who often called on us.

“I will never forget what ensued. My father's face already looked like a thundercloud and it took all my courage to enter the room, but as I said my piece, his expression grew positively murderous. I was almost relieved when he ordered me from the room, but I worried about my mother. She looked so unhappy."

Unable to go on, Mark stopped, and blinking rapidly, gazed out to sea for several minutes. At last, clearing his throat, he continued. “That was almost the last I saw of my mother. She retired to her room and I was not allowed to see her because they said she was ill. It was only when they knew she was going to die that they allowed me in. She looked so pale and frail lying there on all her pillows. I ... I told her I was sorry. I had never wanted to cause her unhappiness or hurt her. And she replied that it was not my fault, but I knew it was. I had spoken up and she had fallen ill. I begged her to get better and she promised that she would try, but we both knew she would not. She died a day later, and not long after that I was sent away to school."

“Poor little boy.” Her eyes swimming with tears, Sophia reached up and touched his cheek with her hand. “How miserable you must have been."

He took her hand in his. “I was. And it took me a long time to recover. But I did at last. Now I can live with the pain, and talking about it with you has made it easier to bear."

“Did you have no one in whom you could confide?"

He shook his head slowly, sadly.

“How very sad.” She laid her head on his shoulder and the tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks.

Mark gathered her in his arms and held her quietly, his chin resting on her hair as she wept.

At last, sniffing, and wiping her eyes, she looked up. “I do not know what came over me. I am not usually such a watering pot, especially over something that happened to someone else years ago."

“You were sharing my loss as I wish to share yours. And yours is a terrible loss."

The hazel eyes filled again with tears. Her face crumpled. “I know. Whatever shall I do? How shall I ever bear it?” She covered her face with her hands and leaned against him sobbing.

“My poor, poor girl.” He held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring,
my poor girl,
until the sobbing subsided. Then, reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped her eyes. “You needed to do that, my love. You cannot keep things bottled up forever, and it is better to cry now than to be suddenly overwhelmed by it later when you least expect it."

“I do apologize.” She took the handkerchief from him and mopped her face with it. “I cannot think when I have lost control of myself like that."

“Sophia.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “It would be far worse if you had not lost control, for then you would be an unfeeling automaton, and that you are not. You could not paint so superbly if you were that sort of person. You would not be beloved by so many people if you were that sort of person."

“Beloved, me?"

“Of course. You are the darling of every man here."

She shook her head slowly, incredulously.

“Believe me, you are. I have seen the men's faces when you walk by. They light up. And it is not just because of your beauty. It is because you care about them, you are interested in what interests them. You share their hardships and their triumphs, and you are there with comfort and concern when they need it."

“Oh."

“Believe me, I know what I am talking about. You are very important, and much beloved by ... by us all."

“Thank you.” She glanced up at him and her breath caught in her throat. There was a look in his eyes that she had never seen before. She had caught a glimpse of it when he had comforted her after the death of Billy Barnes, but now there was an intensity that quite took her breath away

They stood gazing at one another, unaware of time or their surroundings, until a seagull screamed overhead and a large raindrop splashed on Sophia's forehead. Pulling her close. Mark kissed the drop away, retrieved her bonnet, settled it on her head, and tied the ribbons under her chin in a surprisingly expert bow.

“Come. I must take you home before you are soaked through.” Throwing a protective arm around her shoulders, he hurried her toward sheltering trees and back to Sophia's quarters.

Fortunately, the rain, except for a few desultory drops, held off until they reached her door. Sophia reached for the latch, opened the door, and stepped across the threshold. Then, thinking better of it, she turned back. Frowning slightly with the effort of it, she tried to find just the right words to let him know what his sympathy and concern had meant to her, how they had filled some of the cold, hollow feeling inside her. But she could think of nothing. “I, ah, thank you. And you are right, I do feel better.” Quickly ducking her head, as though ashamed of such an admission, she hastily shut the door behind her before Mark could frame a reply.

He remained motionless in front of the door for some minutes, smiling to himself. Then, still smiling, and oblivious to the rain now spattering on his shoulders, he headed down the street toward headquarters.