Authors: Alicia Meadowes
“So, Colonel, as you predicted, we meet again.”
“C’est vrai,
but still the advantage is yours. It is
I
who suffer the loss of honor.
I
who bear the disgrace of defeat in battle.
I
whose body is maimed…” he choked, unable to continue.
“Is this why you asked to meet with me? To air your grievances?” Straeford’s evident disdain enraged Dubois all the more,
but before the Frenchman was able to reply, there was the thunder of hoofbeats which drew bath men’s attention.
“Maurice!” a woman’s voice called.
“Mon Dieu, Isabella!” Dubois whirled to face the woman he had been vainly seeking for days. “I thought you must be dead.”
“No, no,
guerreiro minho,
I was at the mercy of the English pig!” she spat angrily and tossed her head in Straeford’s direction, a gesture Dubois was
quick to interpret. He turned purple with fury. “So, dog, you add insult to injury. You will answer for this with your life.”
The man nearly strangled with his frenzy. “I demand satisfaction! Choose now—pistols or swords!”
“Did I not tell you he would kill you?” Isabella crowed joyously.
“Sorry to disappoint you, madam, but I have no intention of duelling over you, now or ever. And since we are under a flag
of truce, Colonel,” Straeford faced the angry Frenchman, “you have no choice but to let me withdraw
from this farce.” So saying, Straeford swung onto his horse before Dubois could prevent him.
“Sacre Dieu!
You will not abandon the demands of honor.” Dubois was incredulous.
“You’ll have to give me more reason than a mere woman to fight over, my friend.”
“Mere woman!” screeched Isabella. “Kill him, Maurice, kill him now.”
“Fight coward! Come down from your high perch and fight like a man,” Dubois demanded.
But Straeford’s response was only to laugh and ride away with Harding and Drake beside him.
“You’ll pay for this! By the holy name of the
Bon Dieu
I swear you shall pay and I will have my revenge!” Tears from Dubois’ one glittering eye were coursing down his face.
Isabella found release in a string of oaths and cursing.
“The time will come when he will regret his very life. I vow it on my own mother’s grave,” and turning his back on the disappearing
horsemen, Dubois mounted his own mare.
“Maurice?” Isabella ran to him in alarm and clutched at his arm. “Wait for me.”
“I want no man’s cast-off—especially the Englishman’s! Get away from me.” He tried to shake loose of her, but she clung to
him.
“No, Maurice, you can’t do this to me. I, too, have been ill-used and seek revenge for my suffering.”
Dubois tried to shake free of her again, but she clung more desperately. “Let me help you,” Isabella begged. “Please.”
Dubois paused. “Help me? How?”
The frantic woman grasped for a straw and found it. “The British occupy my country. With the aid of some of my countrymen
it would be easy to spy on that devil, and one day when he is most vulnerable, we will strike,” she promised breathlessly.
As Dubois hesitated, considering Isabella’s offer, a cruel smile played about his mouth, and she knew she had won. “Come,”
he sighed, “I will wait for you.”
Having just completed the last details involved with the removal of the Christmas decorations, a task that always saddened
her, Marisa held up one of the ornaments in the air and reflected on the joy and warmth of the season. It was a pity its goodwill
could not remain alive all year, she thought wistfully. During this moment of quiet she sipped a delicious hot cup of tea
and thought about Christmas next year. Would that terrible war finally come to an end? How would her marriage to the earl
change her life?
She was locked deep in the privacy of her thoughts when her solitude was suddenly broken by the noise of someone coming down
the hallway. When she opened the drawing room doors to see who it was, she couldn’t believe her eyes. There, standing in front
of her as big as life, was her brother!
“John? Why, John!” She rushed into his open arms, hugging and kissing him. “You’re home! Can it really be true?”
She stepped back for a moment to take a longer look at him, her face suddenly waxing serious. “You’re so
pale… and you look so thin.” He appeared exhausted to her, his eyes bearing a gaunt look, his face sallow in appearance.
Why, the war actually aged him, she thought, and an overpowering sense of panic seized her. “You haven’t been injured, have
you? You are all right, aren’t you?” she blurted out, both hands clasping his.
“Oh, yes, I’m all right,” he said, smiling weakly. “There’s nothing wrong. I haven’t been hurt in any way.”
Marisa’s eyes lowered in relief. “Come dear brother, please sit down. There is some hot tea and buttered scones for you here.
We needn’t talk at all about that dreadful war right now.”
“But I’m afraid I must,” he protested. “It’s the only way I can rid myself of this nightmare. And a nightmare it certainly
has been.”
“Perhaps… perhaps we should wait for papa,” she suggested, trying to divert his thinking.
“No… I… I couldn’t face him, really. Not yet.”
Marisa instantly perceived a tone of desperation in his protest. “Very well, dear, whatever you wish.”
“Did you receive all of my letters?” He sipped a cup of tea and Marisa thought she saw his hand tremble but she couldn’t be
certain.
“Until November. Then they stopped coming regularly and we began to worry.”
“That’s when the warlords decided we’d been idle long enough,” he stated with obvious bitterness. “Vimeiro wasn’t enough for
them, so they sent us into Spain to confront the French there. We got as far as Salamanca when the roof caved in. Napoleon’s
army outnumbered us so badly that all we could do was retreat as fast as possible to La Corun~a where the fleet was waiting
to transport us home. The French were at our heels the entire time.”
Marisa looked intently at her brother but wished there were some way she could help him turn his mind away from his war experiences.
Obviously, it was painful for him to relate them to her, but all she could do was nod sympathetically and listen as he continued.
“And finally, they caught up with us… It was horrible!” His voice cracked as he continued. “Guns and cannons exploding. Men
shouting, running blindly,
screaming, not knowing what to do or where to go. They began dropping like flies and then panic set in. The ranks broke completely,
and it was every man for himself. We just couldn’t stand up to their bombardments and we knew it. I tried to round up as many
men as I could, and we made our way back to board the ships, leaving so many behind, wounded, crying out for medical aid,
dying right there in front of us as we passed…” He buried his head in his hands and sobbed violently. Marisa, torn with pity,
comforted him and helped him slowly regain his composure.
“I’m sorry, Marisa,” he shuddered. “It’s just that I can’t get that scene out of my mind. It feels like it’s locked in my
memory… those dying faces and somehow here I am, alive. I don’t understand any of it.”
“John, you can’t dwell on this thing.” Marisa tried to soothe him. “Eventually it will pass away.”
“No. I don’t think it ever will. Not if I have to face anything like that again. And I… I don’t think I can. No matter how
father feels about it.”
“I’m sure we’ll be able to get him to understand your feelings,” she said, trying to reassure him.
“He understands nothing—nothing but his own ambition!”
“Hush, John! You’re very upset at this moment and this is not the time to discuss the problem of father.”
A wan smile crossed his lips in reaction to her admonition. “Hmmph! The ‘problem of father’? Now that’s an interesting way
of putting it, I must say.”
“Yes, it is rather,” Marisa said with an impish smile, hoping to coax him into a better mood. “Here, let me pour you some
more tea before it gets cold.”
“Not now,” he said, holding his hand over the cup. “I can’t stay any longer. I must see Ruth before father returns.”
“John,” she pleaded as he rose to leave. She did not want to broach another untimely topic, but there seemed no other choice.
“Perhaps you should wait until you see father. You know how he feels about your
tendre
for Ruth.”
Her suggestion set his eyes ablaze. “I won’t be bullied by him anymore,” John thundered. “I joined this
infernal army because of him, but I’ll be damned if I will be forced into a marriage just to please him. Now maybe you intend
doing that, but…”
“Please, John, don’t say it.”
“Hmm, come to think of it now, you haven’t even asked after ‘the great man’,” he claimed with an accusatory tone. “That’s
how much you care about him, is it?”
“No, that’s not fair, John! I was just about to question you concerning him, but I haven’t gotten around to it.” Marisa’s
voice trailed off as she winced under her brother’s sarcastic gaze. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what has happened to
him? Please don’t taunt me this way! You know that I must find out.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you unnecessarily. Rest assured that he is quite all right. He has not been hurt. As a
matter of fact, he is one of the few officers who can claim a victory in this disastrous campaign. His men annihilated a French
fort near Taro, I understand, but even he had to give way under Napoleon’s onslaught. It was just too overpowering, and so
he brought his men home with the rest of us.”
“So he
has
returned!” An anxious feeling swept inside her. Soon he would be back to see her, and the final wedding arrangements would
be made. From that point on, she heard nothing of John’s remaining conversation. She looked at him directly, nodded appropriately,
and even contributed a sentence or phrase to his continuing discussion, but it was merely a mechanical ritual for Marisa.
The thought of the earl returning had so seized her mind she was unable to respond accurately to several innocuous questions
John had posed without her asking him to repeat them each time.
When her brother had finally gone, Marisa was left alone with a thousand thoughts whirling madly within her brain. When had
he come back? Why hadn’t she asked John? And where was he now? After all of these months, when would he see her?
Their meeting was not to occur until a full two weeks had gone by, and then it was due only to the efforts of Lady Maxwell,
who had announced a small dinner party in their honor. It was not, however, the kind of reunion that Marisa had hoped it would
be. She had
devoted many hours to her toilette in anxious preparation for that evening, determined that when the earl saw her for this
first time in many months he would be captivated by her appearance. And when she made her entrée that evening, Marisa did,
indeed, radiate beauty. Her high-waisted gown of soft peach satin enhanced her pale yellow hair charmingly styled à la Sappho
for this affair. Her firm, well-proportioned breasts arched impudently beneath her low, tight-fitting decolletage where, directly
below, a ribbon cinched smartly underneath her bosom. A burgundy velvet Spencer with a high-standing collar completed her
ensemble, and she carried a petite embroidered bag at her side.
Many male eyes lingered in her direction throughout the evening, but, unbelievably, the earl showed scant interest upon being
reunited with his wife-to-be. At their initial meeting, he had greeted her with a formal kiss on the hand and had exchanged
not more than a few brief sentences with her before he was off talking to first this lord and then that viscount, and so it
went. Even during dinner, conversation was dominated by the gentlemen present so that no intimate discussion was possible
between the two of them. Feeling uneasy in the company of these garrulous socialites, Marisa wavered between shyness and outright
anger at her inability to communicate freely with her husband-to-be.
Alone in her room that night, she painfully reviewed the evening’s frustrations over and over in her mind. Why, he hadn’t
even mentioned the forthcoming wedding at all, except in jest when several of the male guests saw fit to pelt him with quips
concerning his “new duties” and his “demotion in rank.” Of course, Straeford handled their barbs with his characteristic aplomb,
but Marisa could not help feeling hurt by their insensitive attempts at humor. Much later that evening, she had sought in
a very quiet way to talk to him concerning several details relating to the wedding arrangements. But he dismissed them with
one broad sweep of his hand. “I’m certain, my dear, that you are an intelligent woman who is quite capable of attending to
these trivialities entirely on your own. Can’t you see that I have far too many matters of greater importance that will demand
my undivided attention
for some time? Now I do hope that you will care for these details independently of me and not trouble me needlessly. All I
ask, no, demand is that the ceremony be simple, brief and devoid of any embarrassing theatrics.”
Trivialities? Matters of greater importance? Didn’t this marriage have any importance at all for him? Marisa gritted her teeth
in disgust as she recalled how cavalierly he treated what she thought were necessary questions for both of them to resolve.
From that moment on Marisa took no pleasure whatsoever in the wedding preparations. Although she longed to have a glorious,
gala wedding, she knew it was impossible and resigned herself to planning a small, undistinguished affair.
Finally, on a cold and blustery afternoon in early February, the ceremony took place. The huge Gothic church remained largely
empty for the occasion and, except for the lighted candles on the altar and the dim luminescence yielded by the small stained
glass windows, the nuptial rites were conducted in an uninspiring state of semidarkness. The earl had insisted on a simple
wedding and, according to his wishes, pomp and guests were excluded.
While Straeford, Ed Harding and the minister stood in front of the altar, Lady Maxwell and Ann Harding occupied the first
pew and awaited the arrival of the bride and her father. Impatiently, the earl referred to a pocket watch from his vest and
at that exact moment the south portico doors opened to let in a gust of cold air and the entire Loftus family. Hushed whispers
were exchanged among all of them before Angus appeared to escort his daughter to the altar with a proud grin on his half-whiskered
face.