Woods stumbled, then glared sulkily up at Darcy while rubbing his shoulder. Darcy glowered back, intimidating the other once more into obeisance. They walked on in silence for a moment, then Darcy asked, “Which lady?”
Woods glanced up. “What run down Jakes? The wild one ‘erself.”
“Describe her!” Darcy insisted.
Jakes held a hand up to indicate the lady’s height, which was no great help. “Dark ‘air. Not the one in th’ family way—Jakes said I was to get that ‘un. T’other, the sassy piece wha’ wandered off by ‘erself. A demon she was, suh!”
Darcy had temporarily forgotten his vow to silence the insults with iron hooves. Rather, he was smiling to himself, taking one small moment of comfort from the man’s revelations. A lady of medium height with dark hair, and not with child… Georgiana was fair of complexion, Mrs Annesley was quite short, and Bingley had described something of Lydia Wickham’s plight. It must be Elizabeth who had defended his sister with such determination! A demon indeed… more like an avenging angel!
Perhaps matters were not as bleak as his fears led him to believe. At least she had retained her fighting spirit and ferocious loyalty. Perhaps her regard for his sister might also extend in some measure to himself. With any luck, she would even believe the horrible truth of what he must tell her regarding her uncle and his cousin!
His face fell. So long as he was dreaming, he might as well imagine her heart over head in love with him, and watching for his return with open arms. But no, she still believed him buried, and would have heard all manner of untruths to justify the dishonourable circumstances of his “death”. Richard, ever the strategist, would not have overlooked that detail.
A pessimistic frown deepened upon his face as he glared at the road before his horse’s feet. His sentiments vacillated wildly between hope and despair, setting his heart to race one moment and leaving him thrashing in helpless fury the next. It seemed every person who stood to gain something had found a way to do so! His mouth puckered as though he had swallowed something foul. Like as not, Wickham was somehow involved as well!
Woods had watched the distant introspection reign in Darcy’s eyes, and was tired enough to attempt to exploit it. He began to bend his steps from the horse’s side, gradually opening the space between them, until they approached a hedge by the side of the road. Only an errant branch scraping along his arm alerted Darcy that something was amiss with his prisoner, and he was quick to recapture the fellow.
“Attempt another such escape, and I will find that prostitute of yours to learn what I need!” Darcy growled. “I can makehersituation rather less comfortable than it presently is.”
Woods gulped audibly. “Yew wouldn’a, suh! She’s a girl, she is!”
“And your sister, is she not?”
Woods stopped walking and stared. “‘Ow’s yew to know that?”
Darcy leaned down from the saddle. “I also seek to protect my sister. Believe me when I say that you and she will both be better served if you cooperate. There is a coaching inn not a quarter mile ahead. We shall take a fair rest and see that the horse is recovered. I am in no humour to search for you among the local farmhouses.”
Woods nodded half-heartedly. “Aye, suh.”
Chapter thirty-six
Lisbon, Portugal
Amáliapickedatthedrab cloth she held, an unconscious frown creasing her brow. The thick weave of Ruy’s uniform warmed her lap, save for a gaping hole in the sleeve where he had been nearly wounded during exercises. She fingered the hole. Had the sword struck an inch to the left….
She let go a sharp sigh, and bent to her task just as the other women in the room did. All were camp followers—wives, some children, and even a few widows with nothing left for them but what could be gleaned from the attentions of the regiment. These women bore hardship for the love of a soldier—like her, and yet not. Portuguese sisters, all, but their eyes had seen a different sort of suffering than had hers.
They had sheltered her, as Ruy had predicted they would, but not welcomed her. Oh! She was not deaf to the whispers—hands cupped and eyes darting in her direction as her great scandal was pronounced. Even her family’s ancient title purchased her no respect in this room.Aristocrata, the kinder ones called her; a woman of means and standing, running away from an honourable marriage and pretending to follow the drum. Pretending to be one of them.
Her eyes burning, she stabbed a needle through the cloth. Ruy would need this uniform again by the morrow, and if she were to shelter here under his banner, the least she could do was to look after him as the other women cared for their men. Her fingers seemed somehow less capable than theirs, just as her right to take a place among them seemed less secure.
She could not remain much longer—that much she knew right well! Ruy had employed his connections, but there was no place for a soldier’s sister, nor was there meant to be an allotment for her rations. Wives—and women with somewhat less dignity—were always sought after by the regiment for companionship, but she could not be counted among them. Useful women who could cook and sew and nurse wounds were grudgingly accepted as a necessity to the camp, but there was no shortage of those, and her skills were more genteel than practical. She blinked back a tear of frustration and tried to stitch more quickly.
Was this the life she would have known if she had married Richard? Waiting for him at camp, praying that he was among those fortunate ones to ride back from the fire and smoke? Of course, as a true soldier’s wife with a right to her portion of his pay and an acknowledged place among the followers, her status would have been somewhat higher—unless he were killed.
Her wondering gaze raised from Ruy’s coat to the grizzled widow sitting across the room. No more than thirty-five or forty was she, but her life appeared to have played out twice that many years. Amália shuddered and looked back to the coat before her stares could be noticed.Thatwas the fate Richard had tried to spare her from—and just now it seemed a finer one than the one she had fled.
Her eyes fixed on the olive cloth, so lost in contemplation that it was a full minute before she noticed the bright red flush staining the edge of the hole she attempted to mend. Several seconds more passed before she recognised the blood for her own, but then she hurried to blot the well from her pricked fingertip.
She glanced nervously about, hoping her blunder had gone unnoticed, but it had not. Two knowing smiles mocked her from her right, and the whispers began anew. Amália clenched her teeth and rose hastily, snatching the uniform coat from prying gazes.
Mumbling her excuses, she escaped their presence, and a moment later was outdoors. An English officer happened to be walking nearby, his lady on his arm. Amália watched the couple as they strode past, sensing a thrill when the English lady’s kindly blue eyes smiled briefly back into hers. She stood a moment after they had gone, wishing there were more such women in Lisbon. Only the higher ranking foreign officers tended to bring their wives abroad, and often these remained only a few months before returning to England. It was a pity, for the English women seemed to see her with different eyes. Perhaps there was nothing remarkably gracious about the ladies of that country, but the mere fact that they were here, displaced as she, made them somehow more kindred than women who hailed from her own home city.
Amália walked slowly to the old building where she and some of the young wives of the regiment had their lodgings. The light in her room was dismal, and the row of beds seemed both cramped and empty at the same time, but she determined it the best place to complete her task. She sat on her narrow bed, squinting her eyes until they ached, and fumbling with sore fingers until the hole was mended. Just as she was beginning to contemplate the best way to remove her blood from the coat, a disturbance rose from the main door of the house.
Curiously, she moved to the door of the hall where she slept, and the heat surged into her cheeks as she heard a masculine voice demanding entry to the house.Oh, no. No, no, no!
Against the protests of one or two matrons and officers without, someone had forced their way in, and Amália did not need to see the face to comprehend her danger. She spun about, dropping Ruy’s coat and wondering if she could wedge herself into the small window above one of the beds to escape.
