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‘Well, no, I am not,’ he contradicted. ‘I probably should have turned down my promotion from Major to Lieutenant Colonel, but one doesn’t do that.’
‘No harm in ambition,’ she told him, trying to sound sage, and blithely unaware how charming was her naïveté.
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Trouble is, a step up means different duties at Division Three. Now I am chained to a desk and report for meetings, where I sit and draw little figures and yawn inside my mouth, so my tonsils won’t be seen.’
She laughed and touched his sleeve. Just one quick touch, but it made him pleasantly warm. ‘Colonel, I used to do the same thing in theology class, where God was so cruel as to make time stand still.’
‘Exactly.’ Well, aren’t you the charming rogue, he thought. No vicar for a husband for you, I should think. ‘As with most things, there is more to it than that. I went to Stonehouse Hospital to visit the newest arrived Marines invalided there. One of them died in my arms, after wishing there was something more he and his fellow Marines could do to end this stalemate with Boney. I chose not to let his sacrifice be for naught.’
Polly nodded, her face serious. He continued, ‘I asked permission of the Colonel Commandant to conduct impromptu visits to various ships off the Peninsula, and in Lisbon where a Marine brigade is based. I want to find out how the men feel about what they do, and if, indeed, we Marines could do more. Brandon, these are men with vast experience, who surely have ideas! I have carte blanche to stay as long as I wish, and then compile a report. That is why I am here.’
She looked down at her hands, then up at him over her spectacles. ‘We are both running away, aren’t we, Colonel Junot? I could have stayed in Bath and taught the younger pupils at my school, or at least stayed in Torquay and helped my sister Nana, who is increasing again.’
‘But you want to see the wider world, even such a tattered one as this is proving to be, with its everlasting war?’
She frowned, and he could tell she had considered the matter. ‘I think we know I don’t belong here. Maybe I should have stayed in Torquay.’
Then I never would have met you, he realised. It was such a disquieting thought that he wanted to dismiss it. He chose a light tone, because that was all he could do, and even then, it was wrong to his ears. ‘If it’s any comfort, I felt the same way at my first deployment in service of King and country.’
‘When was that? Where did you go?’ she asked, her interest obvious.
What could he say but the truth, even though he knew it would age him enormously in her eyes. ‘It was 1790 and I was bound for India.’
‘Heavens. I had not even been born,’ she told him, confirming his fear.
Get it over with, Hugh, he told himself sourly. ‘I was fifteen and a mere Lieutenant.’
She surprised him then, as she had been surprising him for the three days he had known her. ‘Heavens,’ she said again, and he cringed inwardly. ‘Colonel, I cannot imagine how fascinating India must have been. Did you see elephants? Tigers? Are the women as beautiful as pictures I have seen?’
She didn’t say a word about his age, but calmly continued combing her hair, her mind only on India, as far as he could tell. He felt himself relax. ‘Do you want to hear about India?’
‘Oh, my, yes, I do,’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘Colonel, I have never been anywhere!’
‘Very well,’ he began, eager to keep her there. ‘We landed in Bombay during the monsoon.’
‘You were seasick,’ she said.
‘I told you I have never been seasick,’ he replied, ‘and I meant it.’
‘Very well. Since I was not there, I shall have to believe you.’ She put her comb down and clasped her hands together. ‘Tell me everything you can remember.’
If some celestial scamp in the universe—an all-purpose genie would do—had suddenly whisked away all the clocks and banished time to outer darkness, Polly knew she would be content to listen for ever to Colonel Junot. While her hair dried, she and the sentry who joined them at the Colonel’s suggestion heard of tiger hunts, an amphibious storming of a rajah’s palace in Bombay, and of the rise of Lord Wellington, the ‘Sepoy General’. India was followed by Ceylon and then Canada, as Colonel Junot took them through his Marine career.
It became quickly obvious to Polly that he loved what he did, because she heard it in his voice. She saw it in the way he leaned forwards until she felt like a co-conspirator in a grand undertaking. His storytelling had her almost feeling decks awash and seeing rank on rank of charging elephants and screaming Indians, as he told them so matter of factly about what he did to support himself. He was capability itself.
Through years of indoctrination, Miss Pym had pounded into her head how rude it was to stare at anyone, especially a man, but the Colonel was hard to resist. A natural-born storyteller, he became quite animated when he spoke of his adventures, which only brightened his brown eyes and gave more colour to his somewhat sallow cheeks—he had obviously spent too much time the past winter sitting at conference tables. She was having a hard time deciding if his finest feature was his magnificent posture and bearing, or his handsome lips, which had to be a throwback to his French ancestry.
Colonel Junot was different, she knew, if for no other reason than that he found her interesting. As she listened to him, injecting questions that he answered with good humor, Polly discovered she was already steeling herself against the time he would bow and say goodbye.
‘And that is my career, Private Leonard,’ Colonel Junot concluded, looking at them both. ‘Private, as you were. Brandon, excuse me please.’ He rose, bowed to her, and went his stately way up the companionway.
‘I live such an ordinary life,’ Polly murmured, watching him go.
She went on deck at the end of the forenoon watch, pleased to notice the chair she had sat in yesterday had been relocated to its original place, which probably meant there would be no gunnery practice today. She had brought a book topside with her, something improving that Miss Pym had recommended. She decided quickly that a treatise on self-control was a hard slog on a ship’s deck where so much of interest was going on. She was happy enough to merely close it, when what she really wanted to do was toss it into the Atlantic. Maybe that wasn’t such a shabby idea. Book in hand, she went to the ship’s railing.
‘Brandon, I hope you are not considering suicide.’
She looked around to see Colonel Junot. ‘No, sir. This book is a dead bore and I am about to put it out of its misery.’
He took the book from her hand, opened it, rolled his eyes, then closed it. ‘Allow me,’ he said, and impulsively flung the thing far into the ocean. ‘I hope you were serious.’
‘Never more so,’ she told him firmly. ‘It was a gift from my aunt, who was headmistress at the female academy I attended in Bath, and—’
‘I should apologise then for deep-sixing it,’ he said, interrupting her.
‘Oh, no. Don’t you have any relatives who annoy you?’
He thought a moment, then he laughed. ‘Who doesn’t!’
Walking with more assurance back to her chair, she seated herself, giving the Colonel every opportunity to nod to her and continue on his way. To her delight, he pulled up yesterday’s keg and sat beside her.
‘Brandon, give me some advice.’
‘Me?’ she asked, amazed.
‘Yes, you,’ he replied patiently. ‘Under ordinary circumstances, you appear quite sensible.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she teased, and put a hand to her forehead like a seaman.
‘I have told you what my aim is on my fact-finding mission.’ He must have caught the look in her eye, because he wagged a finger at her. ‘Don’t you even presume to call it “taking French leave from the conference table”.’
‘I would never, sir,’ she said solemnly, which made him look at her suspiciously.
‘Seriously, Brandon, how can I approach Marines?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘Colonel, you would know far better than I!’
‘I don’t. On this ship, for example—which for our purposes we will call “Any Frigate in the Fleet”—I communicated my wishes to the Sergeant, and he passed them to his men. Everyone is stiff and formal, and I can almost see their brains running, trying to work out what it is I really want to know.’
Polly thought about what he had said, but not for long, because it seemed so simple. ‘Can you not just sit with them as you are sitting casually with me? Tell them what you told me about the dying Lieutenant, and what it is you wish to do. Look them in the eye, the way you look me in the eye—you know, kindly—and tell them you need their help. Why need you be formal?’
He watched her face closely, and she could only hope he had not noticed her odd little epiphany. ‘You are kind, you know,’ she said softly.
‘Thank you, Brandon, but no one can get beyond my rank to just talk to me. There is a larger issue here, one I had not thought of: this may be the first time in the history of the Marines that an officer has actually asked an enlisted man what he thinks.’
‘That is a sad reflection,’ she said, after some consideration. ‘Everyone has good ideas now and then.’
‘We never ask.’
He was looking far too serious, as though his good idea in Plymouth was already on the rocks. She put her hand on his arm, and he glanced at her in surprise. Just two days, and then you are gone, she thought. ‘I told you, you are kind. Don’t give up yet. You’ll find a way to talk to the men.’ She took her hand away and looked down, shy again. ‘When I was so desperate, you found a way to put me at ease.’
‘That was simplicity itself. You needed help.’
‘So did the Lieutenant who died in your arms, Colonel,’ she told him, finding it strange that she had to explain his own character to him, wondering why people didn’t see themselves as they were. ‘Just be that kind man and you will find out everything you want to know.’
She stopped, acutely aware she was offering advice to a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines, who, under ordinary circumstances, would never have even looked at her. ‘Well, that’s what I think,’ she concluded, feeling as awkward as a calf on ice.
He nodded and stood up, and Polly knew she had not helped at all. He put his hands behind his back, impeccable. ‘I just go and sit on that hatch and call over the Marines and speak to them as I speak to you, Brandon?’
‘You could take off that shiny plaque on your neck and unbutton your uniform jacket,’ she suggested, then could not resist. ‘Let them see you have on a checked shirt underneath.’
His smile was appreciative as he fingered the gorget against his throat. ‘I must remain in uniform, Brandon, and the gorget stays. I will try what you say.’ He did not disguise the doubt in his voice.
She clasped her hands together, unwilling to let him go, even if it was only to the main deck. ‘Colonel, you could practise right here. Ask me questions. I could do the same to you.’
‘Why not?’ He contemplated her for a moment, and she suddenly wished she was thinner, that her hair was not so wind-blown, and that her glasses would disappear. He was looking her right in the eyes, though, so maybe he didn’t notice.
He flexed his fingers and cleared his throat. ‘Private Brandon, as you were, please! Let me set you at ease. I’m here to ask questions of you that will never be repeated to your superior. I will not even name you in my report.’ He looked at her, his eyes sceptical. ‘What do you think so far?’
‘You could smile,’ she suggested.
‘Too artificial,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘That would terrify them because officers never smile.’
‘I don’t understand men,’ Polly said suddenly.
‘You weren’t meant to,’ he told her gently, which made her laugh. ‘All right. All right. Private Brandon, tell me something about yourself. Why did you join the Royal Marines? I’m curious.’ He peered at her. ‘Just tell me something about yourself, Brandon, something that I don’t know.’
She thought a moment, and realised with a sudden jolt that she had reached that place where Nana had once told her she would one day arrive. ‘“Polly, dear, you must never deceive a man about your origins,”’ Nana had told her only a week ago.
‘My father was William Stokes, Lord Ratliffe of Admiralty House,’ she said. ‘I am one of his three illegitimate daughters, Colonel.’
To her relief, he did not seem repulsed. ‘That accounts for all the years in boarding school in Bath, I suppose. Tell me more, Brandon. What do you like to do?’
‘After that, you really want to know more?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Indeed, I do, Private Brandon,’ he said simply. ‘Remember—I’m supposed to extract answers from you and keep you at your ease. I am interested.’
‘Our father tried to sell my older sisters to the highest bidder, to pay off his debts,’ she went on.
‘What a bad man,’ the Colonel said. ‘Is he the Admiralty official who died in a Spanish prison and is thought by some to be a hero?’
‘He died in Plymouth, and, yes, some think him a hero,’ she said, her voice barely audible.
He amazed her by putting his hand under her chin and raising it a little, so he could look her in the eyes. ‘You managed to avoid all this? How?’
Don’t you have eyes in your head? she wanted to retort. ‘Come now, Colonel,’ she said. ‘I am no beauty. My father chose to ignore me.’
For some reason, her bald statement seemed to embarrass the Colonel, whose face turned red. ‘Shallow, shallow man,’ he murmured, when he had recovered himself. ‘He never really took a good look at you, did he?’
Startled, she shook her head. ‘He demanded miniatures of my sisters, but not of me.’
‘Thank God, Brandon,’ the Colonel whispered, his eyes still not leaving her face. He gazed at her for a long moment, and then seemed to recall what he was doing. He sat back and regarded her speculatively. ‘I think I can do those interviews now,’ he said. ‘If I show a genuine interest in what these enlisted men are telling me, look them in the eyes and wait, I might have success. Is that it?’
‘I think it is,’ she replied, relieved that he had changed the subject, and a little surprised at how much information she had given him with so little encouragement. ‘You’re actually rather good at interviewing, I think.’ Then she couldn’t help herself. ‘Only don’t chuck them under the chin.’
He laughed and held up his hands in a surrender gesture. ‘Too right, Brandon! Wait. You never told me what you like to do, only about your dreadful father. There’s more to you than him.’
She had never thought of it that way before. ‘I like to plant things. Before I left Torquay, I helped my brother-in-law’s mother plant a row of Johnny Jump-Ups in pots. We … we were going to do snapdragons next, but the letter came and I went to Plymouth. It’s not very interesting,’ she said in apology.
‘You’d like Kirkcudbright, the village where I grew up,’ he said. ‘Everyone has flowers in their front yard. It smells like heaven, around July. And it is interesting.’
The Colonel put his hand on her cheek then, as he had the other evening. ‘Don’t ever sell yourself short, Brandon,’ he said quietly. ‘Incidentally, I like to carve small boats.’
He bowed and left the quarterdeck for the waist of the frigate, where the guns were tied down fast. She watched as he spoke to the Sergeant of the guard, then sat down on the hatch.
‘That’s the way,’ Polly murmured quietly, her heart still beating too fast. ‘Surely they won’t remain standing if you are seated.’
Trying not to appear overly interested, she watched as the Marines not on duty approached Colonel Junot. He gestured to them, and in a few minutes, they were seated around him.
‘Talk to him,’ she whispered. ‘Just talk to him. He’s nothing but kind. All it takes is one of you to speak.’
One of the Privates squatting on the edge of the gathering raised his hand. Colonel Junot answered him, and everyone laughed, even the man who asked the question. Then others joined in, talking to the Colonel, to each other, and even calling over some sailors.
You just have to be yourself, she thought, imagining Colonel Junot’s capable hands carving little boats for children. Just be the man who was so kind to me.
Chapter Five
Maybe it was the wistful way Polly Brandon had spoken of snapdragons. As Hugh had tried out his interviewing skills on a squad of obliging Marines, he’d found his mind wandering to the lady in the canvas chair.
He could be thankful he was aboard one of his Majesty’s typical warships, which did not believe in mirrors on the bulkheads. He had enough trouble frowning into his shaving mirror the next morning and seeing nothing but grey hair starting to attack his temples. As he stared in total dissatisfaction, a brave better angel of his nature did attempt to remind him of his own words to Brandon a day ago, when he so sagely advised her not to sell herself short. The angel shrugged and gave up when he chose not to admit he was doing exactly the same thing to himself.
‘I am too old,’ he told his reflection in the shaving mirror as he scraped at his chin, which only made him wince—not because the razor was dull, but because none of those obstacles loomed any higher than the molehills they were to him. All he could think of was his August 9, 1775 birth date in the family Bible back home.
When his face was scraped sufficiently free of whiskers, he sat naked on the cold cannon in his cabin, glumly willing himself to be as practical as he ordinarily was. He reminded himself he was on duty, in the service of his King, headed into the war, and destined to be busy. Another day or two would pass and he would never see Polly Brandon again. For his peace of mind, it couldn’t come too soon. Hugh did know one thing—what ailed him had a cure, and it was probably to continually remind himself that he was too old for the bewitching Polly Brandon.
Two days later, he could have made his resolve less problematic if he hadn’t been pacing on deck in the early hours, dissatisfied with himself. If he had a brain in his head, he would skulk somewhere on the ship when it docked in Oporto. Brandon would go ashore, and he would never see her again. He could go on to Lisbon.
That was his plan, anyway—a poor one, but serviceable enough. Trouble was, the view of Oporto took his breath away, and he was down the companionway in a matter of minutes, knocking on her door to tell her to step lively and come on deck for a look.
Why did you do that? he scolded himself, as he returned topside. His only hope was that she would look unappetising as she came on deck, maybe rubbing her eyes, or looking cross and out of sorts the way some women did, when yanked from slumber. If that was the case, he might have an easier time dismissing her. He could go about his business and forget this little wrinkle in his life’s plan, if he even had a plan.
No luck. She came on deck quickly, a shawl draped over her arm. He smiled to see that she still couldn’t quite reach that centre button in back. I won’t touch it, he thought. Her face was rosy from slumber, her eyes bright and expectant. She merely glanced at him, then cast her whole attention on the beautiful harbour that was Oporto. She had wound her long hair into a ridiculous topknot and skewered it with what looked like a pencil. She looked entirely makeshift, but instead of disgusting him, he wanted to plant a whacking great kiss on her forehead and see where it led. Lord, I am hopeless, he thought in disgust.
She was too excited to even say good morning, but tugged on his arm. ‘Where is the hospital?’ she demanded.
He pointed to the southern bank. ‘Over there, in that area called Vila Nova de Gaia. Turn round.’
She did as he demanded, and he buttoned up the centre button. ‘You need longer arms,’ he commented, but she was not paying attention to him.
