Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (22 page)

“Good,” Alistair said, guilty but unrepentant. After a long internal debate, he’d finally decided to nab them. They were far too nice to leave in a cupboard, and if Cyril kicked up a dust, he wouldn’t be here to see it.
 

“If you’ve forgotten anything, write me and I’ll see it gets sent on,” Anna said.
 

“I will. Thank you.” When she’d insisted on coming to wave him off, he’d feared he was in for his mother’s brand of theatrics: leaky eyes, pleas to be careful, continual nervous fluttering. He should have known better. Anna was calm and solicitous—interested in his well-being, but no more. Her practical attention was much more to the purpose.
 

“Safe journey,” she said, hoisting Henry onto her hip.
 

The child was an impediment, but not enough. Alistair roped them in with his arms, ignoring a kick to his hip from Henry, who was mashed between them.
 

“Henry, help a fellow out, will you? I can’t see your mother behind that hat.”
 

Henry let go of Alistair’s epaulette and shoved aside Anna’s bonnet. “Here she is.”
 

It would be a fine thing, Alistair thought, to be smiled on the way Anna did to Henry, but her happy expression lasted only a brief moment before contracting into a pained frown. Along with the bonnet, Henry had wrapped his fingers round a piece of her hair.
 

“Those curls are mine today,” Alistair said, releasing Anna with one arm so he could pry Henry’s fingers loose. “You’ll send me one, I hope. Didn’t have time to ask before.” In truth, he hadn’t thought of it, but he wished he had now.
 

“I will, if you want it,” Anna said.
 

“Good.” He smoothed her hair into place with his fingers, then let them slip down her cheek, tracing his index finger over the corner of her mouth. “Glad to see you smiling, Mrs. Morris.”
 

He leaned in to kiss her, a brief touch only, since they were standing in the street, balancing her boy between them. “Good hunting,” he whispered. “Don’t rush yourself, and don’t settle.”
 

“I’ll be careful,” she said, and stepped out of his arms.
 

He always made a point of whistling to himself as he left home to ride to war. Today the notes came easier. By the time he had turned the corner, he was singing one of his battalion’s favorite tunes, the wildly colorful
Downfall of Paris
.
 

“Sir!” came the outraged protest of a ruddy nosed gentleman, leaning protectively over the perplexed lady sharing the seat of his curricle.
 

“Lovely song, isn’t it?” said Alistair, tipping his hat. He rode on, ignoring the sputters behind him, singing until he finished the last verse.
 

*****

Well, that was that. Anna helped Henry into Lord Fairchild’s carriage so they could return to the house, wondering if she would ever see Captain Beaumaris again. It seemed unlikely.
 

“Are there cannons in Spain?” Henry asked.
 

“Yes,” Anna responded absentmindedly.
 

“Can I have one?”
 

She looked at her son, who was peering up at her hopefully, fiddling with a button hanging from his jacket by a loose thread. All the buttons had been securely fastened when he’d put on the jacket this morning. No wonder Lucy was always sewing.
 

“Canons aren’t for children,” she said, not bothering to correct Henry’s speech. The larger issue required attention first. “They’re heavy, dangerous, and they shoot fire.”
 

Henry’s eyes grew round and rapturous. “Can I see?”
 

“Not today,” Anna said. “Give me that button. If we put it in your pocket, it won’t get lost.” She pried it free and slid it into his pocket before he could lunge to the far side of the carriage, where she’d stuffed his ragged blanket. This was the dit she’d heard so much of—a grey, threadbare tatter of wool, patched in a multitude of places with mismatched thread.
 

“Is that from your uncle’s dog?” she asked, reaching across Henry to finger a large rent.
 

“Mmmhmm,” Henry nodded, clutching the dit protectively.
 

“I could mend it for you. Grandma Fulham would do the best job, but I can manage in a pinch.”
 

“In blue?”
 

Why not?
“I can patch in it blue,” she said. Lady Fairchild might have blue thread; if not, she could send her maid to buy some.
 

Henry gave a satisfied nod from the far corner of the coach. He didn’t like being squashed or coddled, and tolerated her touch with an impatient air. But he was here, within reach. She couldn’t look at him for long without her throat constricting and her eyes growing hot. Last night she’d crept into the nursery again, plunking herself down on the floor by the bed, counting his breaths, watching him sleep, forgetting her irritation over his bedtime tantrum because his bread and milk hadn’t come in his usual blue plate and cup. Despite Alistair’s success, she didn’t feel up to demanding dishes from Frederick. She might be able to buy a similar one. Or Henry could learn to accept inconvenience—no, that possibility was too remote to expect. Perhaps she could ask Frederick for the blue plate after all. He was hateful and condescending, but unlike Henry, he probably wouldn’t scream at her. Henry had lasted a good half-hour last night and once again thrown the offending dishes onto the floor. She’d tried to reason with him, but failed, feeling worse every time she imagined Lord and Lady Fairchild exchanging pained glances on the floor below.
 

She’d find a way to manage. She had to. No matter what happened, she wasn’t losing Henry again.
 

After ten years in the army, Alistair had a good idea what to expect on his journey. He wasn’t disappointed. Arriving in Portsmouth that evening, he learned the HMS Gallant wasn’t ready to sail.
 

“Two more days to finish revictualling, at least,” said Jamieson, a young coronet journeying out to join Alistair’s regiment. Alistair got himself a room at the Old Ship, an inn with clean enough sheets and food that earned more praise—deservedly, Alistair decided, putting away a second slice of pie. After a long day’s riding, he was hungry.
 

Retiring to his room, he wrote his parents and started a letter to Anna. Sealing the letter to his parents and setting the one for Anna aside (he’d add more later) he descended to the public room, where Griggs was swapping stories with another campaigner. Jamieson was in another corner with the new recruits, wiry lads with smooth faces, except for one sporting an unusually luxurious mustache.
 

Must have started shaving when he was twelve, Alistair thought.
 

They spent the night tossing back bumpers of gin. Alistair, the oldest of the lot, was pressed for story after story. He obliged, and some of the ones he told were even true. Later, when these fellows knew more, they’d question his veracity, but he wasn’t about to waste such naiveté by ruining the game. Fuddled by drink, he finally made his cautious way upstairs, tired enough to sink immediately into dreamless sleep.
 

The Gallant finished taking on supplies and sailed before Alistair could enjoy too much of the landlady’s excellent pie or run into trouble with her daughter, who had an unfortunate tendency of latching eyes on him. She’d have had better luck with Jamieson, though it was probably for the best. Jamieson was young and careless.
 

Despite the promise of calm seas, Alistair spent the first two days miserable in his hammock, or heaving his guts over the side. Once Neptune accepted his customary offerings, Alistair’s stomach declared a truce. He spent the remaining days pondering Horace, the majesty and minuteness of a ship at sea, and trading friendly insults with his brother officers in the King’s Navy. The frigate was cleaner than most of the lodgings Alistair found, but he was grateful he fought his battles on land. Too much time on this floating ant hill and he’d turn mystic or philosopher. Either would be tedious, if not for him, then at least for everyone else.
 

The ship was crammed full of infantry recruits, a noisy, undisciplined lot that Alistair suspected he’d end up escorting across Spain. There were stores and oxen and horses—they could never get enough remounts. The captain didn’t confide in him, but Alistair expected there were money chests secured in the hold too—he hoped so, for it was difficult keeping the army supplied with goods purchased from their Spanish and Portuguese allies, and the soldiers’ pay was usually months in arrears. Alistair had money enough for now, even after buying the new mare, having won a pretty sum playing whist against Tom Bagshot. Of course, he still had to acquire a pack mule or two in Lisbon, so it wouldn’t be too long before his pockets were to let.
 

In spite of himself, his spirits lifted when they reached port. His black gelding fretted in the sling as he was lifted from the ship to the docks, but the mare was unperturbed by this rude handling. She landed lightly, flicked her ears as she waited to be released and accepted a pat on the nose, looking at the other horse with mild reproach.
 

Lisbon was a beautiful city: houses with walls of creamy oyster and red tile roof-hats; domes and cupolas edged in stonework lace; hills clad in trees of a green like no other, since today there was no haze. Alistair spoke better Spanish than Portuguese, but it felt good all the same to shape his tongue around that language again. He wished his friends on the Gallant well, and then, since he was yet a man of means, he dispatched Griggs with the horses and baggage to one of the more pleasing hostelries. “Clean. And quiet,” he ordered. No doubt he’d join Jamieson and the others this evening for a dance or a visit to the theatre, and a glimpse of Lisbon’s ladies, but afterward he wanted a quiet place for himself with just a pen, paper, and a bottle of port.
 

Anna would not look so out of place in Lisbon, he thought, with her bright lips and dark hair, though her eyes were a perhaps too light a grey. Still, dress her up right and teach her the fandango, and she’d look as beguiling as the rest of them. Those curving lips and dark lashes would look well, half obscured by a black mantilla. Maybe he’d find one for her once he got into Spain.
 

Reporting promptly at headquarters, Alistair received a pleasant surprise—no tending a wagon train across hot plains for him.
 

“Staff’s borrowing you for a spell. You know the country and right now there’s no one else. Clermont tried to ride his horse up a flight of stairs and broke a leg, damn him,” said General Barnard, the depot’s commanding officer. “I need you to carry dispatches. You’ve got good horses?”
 

“I’d show you them, if you had the time,” Alistair said, knowing the harassed general did not. “Or you can take my word for it.”
 

Barnard grunted. “I’ll take your word. I’d send you tonight if I could, but I expect the best you can manage is tomorrow morning.”
 

Alistair considered. Griggs would follow after him, with the mules and the baggage. If he was quick finding the hostelry, he could dash off a letter and take it to the Gallant before they even finished unloading. “I can be on my way before nightfall,” Alistair said. “No need to delay. I’ve seen Lisbon before.” One dance or play was much like another. He wouldn’t miss anything tonight he hadn’t had before.
 

Barnard’s approving laugh sounded more like an artillery blast. “Not like those recruits! Lost in the gutters and fleshpots inside of an hour. Have to haul them out and shout them sober before they’ll march.”

“They’ll have both discipline and order by the time they reach Madrid,” Alistair said.
 

General Barnard grunted noncommittally. “Let’s hope.” He leaned back in his chair, appraising Alistair again. Alistair didn’t flinch. No reason to—despite his inward misgivings, his record was spotless, as was his uniform, and General Barnard had a reputation for being more concerned with the latter. “Well, get going!” barked Barnard, so Alistair did.
 

*****

Anna’s first day at Rushford House was the worst. The rest were only marginally better.
 

The first test was an afternoon with Lady Fairchild in the drawing room. Lady Fairchild didn’t accept any callers, so Anna had to endure two hours of elegantly poisonous questions, watching Lady Fairchild’s Sphinx-like countenance, wondering if the next time she’d answer wrong and get eaten. Anna stumbled over her responses, caught on the idea of Lady Fairchild unhinging her beautiful jaw before coiling round and swallowing her. She’d forgotten it was possible to sweat and shiver at the same time.
 

It made no sense to her, but apparently it mattered that her fingers were symmetrical, that she was quick to puzzle out acrostics, and that she had all her teeth. Satisfied, Lady Fairchild closed the interview with a gentle inclination of the chin. “It’s nice to get to know you. I think you and Captain Andrews will suit perfectly. Wear your green silk tonight. He’ll be sitting next to you at dinner.”
 

By the time the expressionless Fairchild footmen brought out the second course, Anna was certain of one thing—if she were ever alone with Captain Andrews, she’d do him an injury. Stabbing wouldn’t silence him, so it would have to be the garrote.
 

The next candidate was nicer, less enamored with his own opinions, though thicker about the middle. Mr. Geoffrey Gordon-Page let her complete her sentences when she ventured to speak, even if he wore a glazed, falsely interested look.
 

“We didn’t know what to do with the extra vaccine, so I ate it,” Anna finished, just to see if he was listening.
 

“Really.”