It was a quick sketch of a man in shirtsleeves at a desk laden with papers, but it captured him perfectly.
“Before Waterloo. That was an organizational nightmare.” He flicked through a few more sheets. “That’s Con.”
She saw a man with strong features and short dark hair standing in classic soldier pose staring into the distance, a long cloak concealing most of his uniform. He almost looked like a statue.
“He looks tired,” she said. “After battle?”
“Before Waterloo. He didn’t want to be there. None of us did, of course, but he especially. He left the army in 1814, so he’d been away for nearly a year. He’d grown used to living insunlight, and came back to join us in the shadows. I think he’s still in the shadows, and I haven’t tried to help.”
He moved on and showed her a series of drawings of boys and men. Some were quick sketches, others highly worked pencil portraits. All were of distinct individuals. Not a professional standard, no, but drawn by a skilled amateur who had captured his comrades-in-arms in many moods.
She stopped him so she could read the names, and found that the writing wasn’t complete names.Ger, Badajoz,she read.Don, Talavera.With a chill, she knew that he’d recorded the battles where they had died.
Then one drawing said only,Hilyard.
“He didn’t die?”
“The bloody flux in a muddy village. We didn’t even know the name. We lost more men to disease than to battle.”
She took the folder and flicked through it quickly, seeing name and location on every one. “You only drew dead men?”
“They were alive at the time.” Before she could ask, he said, “I generally gave the pictures to the sitters. These are men who died before I had a chance. I’ve wondered if the relatives would like them. They’re not very good.”
“Good enough,” she said, staring at one near the end.
Dare, Waterloo.
There were a great many Waterloo ones, but this sketch had leaped out at her because she recognized the long face and merry smile. “He looks ready for a great adventure,” she said, touching the paper. “I think his mother would like this. They don’t have a recent likeness.”
“You knew him?”
“He’s a distant cousin.” She traced his smile. “He looks so happy.”
He picked up the paper and studied it. “Drove us crazy. We all knew it was going to be hell, but Dare saw it as anadventure. He was Con’s friend. Part of a bunch of Harrow men who call themselves the Company of Rogues. He was one of the enthusiastic volunteers that we scoffed at, but you couldn’t scoff at Dare. At least he knew he didn’t know.”
All the pictures disturbed her, but Dare’s in particular. He and Van were of an age. Van could so easily be dead. Was that why he was showing them to her? “Why did you want me to see these? They don’t change anything.”
“Don’t they?” He flipped through the pages and pulled another one out, one not obviously different from the others except in being a little more clumsy. A picture of a sinewy, grizzled man who looked cynical but kind.
“Sergeant Fletcher. He taught me how to survive. When you were marrying Celestin, the scrubby schoolboy was drawing his first picture of a walking corpse.”
The clock on his mantel tinkled the hour.
He gave her the picture. “Don’t think that I’m a child, Maria, not knowing what I want and need. You are my heart’s blood. Perhaps we all know when we meet that one person who is the perfect match.” He took another sheet out of the folder, the very last sheet, and gave her a picture of herself. “Not drawn from life, of course.”
It was just head and shoulders. Her hair was loose, as she never wore it, tendriling down the front of a simple gown. She looked serious, but not unhappy, and unlike any self she had seen in a mirror.
“You have a gift, but this isn’t really me.”
“It’s the Maria I see.” He began to tidy the papers. “I will leave tomorrow if you insist, but my feelings will not change.” He tied the strings and looked up. “You do not have to protect me from myself.”
She caressed his scarred cheek. “How can I not? Love does that to us.”
“I’m not your child, Maria. I’m your lover.” He kissed her then, proving it, and loved her in the wild-fire way.
She lay there afterward, sweaty and sticky, stroking the lean length of his powerful body.
I’m not your child, Maria. I’m your lover.
