Seducing Laura

Prologue

January, 1809

Chin up, old girl.

Despite the press of people around them, Laura heard, and smiled in response, trying to show insouciance she was far from feeling. Michael’s breath was warm on her shoulder, lending her a false comfort. Just a battle, then we can go home. I won’t be gone long. The Frenchies are as worn out as we are.

Laura turned to her husband, still handsome to her eyes, despite his unwashed hair and the gauntness of starvation showing in the sharper angles of his face. His coat hung loosely on his frame now. The silver lace adorning the black fabric, once so smart and jaunty was now torn and stained, but he was still unmistakably a British officer. His air of command, the proud stance and the way the men around gave him a little space for privacy with his wife, all demonstrated it. I’ll wait, Laura promised. I’ll save you a place below.

He gave her a quick smile, conveying reassurance and love. That’s my princess.

The ship took a sudden lurch, and threw Laura against Michael. He caught her, and took the opportunity to bestow a light kiss on her lips. I’m counting on that warm berth later, he said, just as if they were about to retire to a private bedroom in their own home instead of crowded accommodation on a transport ship.

At least Laura had enough blankets now. She wore one draped across her shoulders. She would never forget the cold in that terrible journey across the mountains to Corunna, Soult’s troops after them every inch of the way. The cold had struck through to her bones, all nearer the surface of her skin as a consequence of the forced march in the freezing cold and snow. The ships sent to fetch them home brought plenty of blankets, and although she didn’t look fit for the drawing room, at least she was warm now.

Glancing down ruefully Laura knew she didn’t appear at her best. In a warm woollen gown which had fit her when she left England but now hung on her skeletal frame, her husband’s greatcoat, the blanket and a stained bonnet now divested of all its jaunty trim, she felt more suited to the workhouse than the drawing rooms of fashionable London. Michael had never complained at the privations, not once, and refused to go on without her. Once, when Laura sat down in the snow and refused to move any further, he’d sat down next to her. She’d been forced to get up, for his sake.

Now she smiled and snuggled in to him. Where will you be?

Michael turned to face the shore, keeping his arm around her shoulders. Laura reflected how shocked her sister would be to see such improper behaviour and smiled at the thought, but kept it to herself. Her husband and her older sister didn’t get on very well all the time.

See that range of hills? Laura followed the sweep of Michael’s hand and nodded. In front of them, above the harbour and its jutting promontory was a double sweep of hills, one lower than the other.

We’ll be on the lower slopes. I’m with Bentinck.

I see, she said. There were two regiments in black and silver here today; it would help her to distinguish which one belonged to her husband if she knew where he would be.

The Frogs will no doubt stay up there, he told her. Small figures displaying the blue and red of France moved over the large hills, settling in, setting up, taking orders, milling about in seeming confusion. It was impossible to guess how many; though Sir John Moore, leading the expedition, would have a fair idea from his scouts. Laura preferred not to know. Michael had advanced to the rank of major, and would take a prominent part in the forthcoming battle. All she could think about was his safety. She didn’t care about his brilliant military career, the good opinion of his superior officers. She only wanted Michael to be safe.

Suddenly Laura realised there would be years of this, years of waiting and praying for Michael’s safety. The only thing that warmed her was the thought that more soldiers survived a battle than didn’t. Chilled by the thought of spending more times waiting for him, perhaps at a greater distance, she knew she must force herself to be strong. He would need support, not a watering pot. He had told her what a soldier’s wife must face when he’d proposed to her, in her sister’s drawing room, a lifetime ago. She’d taken him anyway.

She wouldn’t tell him how worried she was, that was the last thing he needed: another person to worry about. She knew she had been more of a burden than she’d intended to be, but then she hadn’t expected a forced march. Perhaps she would have been better staying at home in England after all. Michael had urged her to stay, but she couldn’t bear to part with him so soon after their marriage, and elected to go with him. There wasn’t anything at home to keep her; indeed, matters were such that it was a relief to leave the shores of England behind.

Shaking that thought off, Laura studied the panorama before them. The ships had arrived after two days of anxious waiting; the women, the sick and the cavalry were aboard, horses not being of much use in this terrain. The French seemed intent on attack, committed to it, so if the British were victorious, they could be on their way back home as soon as the next day.

Laura couldn’t look any more. She turned and embraced Michael in a great bear hug, not caring who was by to watch. No one did. They were all too busy, and a soldier kissing his woman goodbye was too common a sight here for anyone to remark on. She held him tight, and he returned her kisses with a desperation that told her he was feeling more than excitement. She warmed to the trust he gave her, by letting her feel his unspoken fears.

Gently Michael put her away from him and studied her, one of his jaunty grins breaking across his handsome face. "Don’t worry, old girl, I’ll be back soon enough. Au revoir!" He turned, picked up his gun and left her. He never said goodbye, and she had picked up the habit. It was a superstition between them. If they ever said goodbye, it might be for good.

She saw him once more, and he blew her a kiss. She caught it, and returned it with one of her own. Someone saw her that time; an older woman married to one of his sergeants. You’ve not been married long, then, ma’am? she said, with a knowing smile.

Six months, Laura confessed. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t want him to leave me behind, so soon after the wedding.

Yes, said the woman thoughtfully. Men can get you into all kinds of trouble. I don’t suppose you bargained for this when you married him!

Laura smiled. How could I? The experience of the last few months had been outside anything else she’d ever known. She thought she was prepared, and on the whole she’d coped well, but the privation, the brutality, was something she hadn’t a clue existed before she saw it for herself.

They stood together at the ship’s rail, Laura and her new companion, watching the small boats depart for the shore. Michael and a few others had been allowed a short leave to see their wives, but now all the military were ordered to report for battle.

They enjoy all this, you know, said the woman. She sounded calm, laconic.

With some mental effort, Laura remembered the woman’s name. Why, Mrs. Birkiss! How can anyone enjoy this!

The woman smiled, but there was no humour in it. Pushing back a strand of grey-streaked, dirty brown hair, she commented, It’s the adventure. Something they can tell all their friends about afterwards. If you’re anything like me, ma’am, all you’re thinking of is a warm parlour and a pot of tea.

Oh yes! Laura sighed in longing. To be safe, warm and not hungry or cold any more. Her ambitions had narrowed to that in the last month. It was all she had dreamed of, but never articulated, along with every other camp follower.

The differences between the two women were marginal, except for their ages. They both wore some form of headgear, a heavy coat several sizes too big for them and a blanket over the whole. Their shapes were rendered into two undistinguished mounds by this form of clothing, in common with the other women on deck, be they whore or wife. It didn’t matter any more. What was a piece of paper? They all had men they cared for, and they all watched them march towards possible death.

I’ve been at this for years, the woman commented. It gets to be normal seeming after a while. When we get home I won’t know what to do with myself.

Have you somewhere? Laura asked.

Yes ma’am; a little house just outside Plymouth. My sister’s there now, with our children. I can hardly remember what children I have now, but they’ll know me soon enough.

This surprised Laura, but Mrs. Birkiss went on to explain; When you’ve been through something like this march, everything shrinks to the next footstep. Nothing else matters. Then you suddenly have to step back into what most people think is real life. It’s hard sometimes. And us women, we don’t get no medals.

Laura knew this was true, and knew her own folly had brought her here. While not of the first consequence, Michael was of good family and possessed a house in town and one in the country, with a sizeable estate. Laura could have stayed there in comfort, but so soon after the wedding, lost in the first throes of marriage, she found herself unable to say goodbye. What she had intended as a month’s stay changed with the circumstances, until she had found herself tramping over the mountains, her luggage and fashionable clothes long since discarded, to end up here, at Corunna.

The thought made her turn a sudden smile on to her companion. One that brought a widening of the eyes and raised eyebrows.

What is there to smile so sweetly for?

We’ll be home soon, she said.

I’ll wager you’ll think twice before following the drum again, commented the other woman acidly.

Laura thought she might, but also realised this adventure had been something special, something she could be proud of, though how a retreat could be turned into a victory was beyond her. All through their long trudge over the mountains, nothing more important than reaching Corunna and the fleet in one piece, the officers had shown their true worth, urging them on, relentlessly. The French followed not far behind them, suffering the same privations, but never giving up. The enemy wouldn’t let them go without a fight.

The little rowboats reached the harbour. Without a glass, Laura couldn’t distinguish Michael any more, but there was no need. She could remember him if she only closed her eyes, every laugh line on his face, the sparkle in his dark eyes, the tender smile he would flash at her in unguarded moments. Without him she would never have got this far. She would be dead, with many others, in the hills behind them. Needing to know he was safe, knowing he wouldn’t go on without her had kept both of them on their feet for mile after weary mile.

The soldiers who disembarked made their way to where the main bulk of the army stood, on the lower range of hills, milling about just as haphazardly as the French, or so it seemed to Laura.

There was nothing to do but watch. Laura could have gone below to help with the wounded, but it was crowded there, already full of volunteers. The groans of the sick, mixed with the babble of their attendants, swelled up from below, rising and falling with each individual crisis. The deck creaked under her feet, but apart from that, it was quiet above. The ship’s swaying had ceased to disturb her. She was only glad to be warm again, and relatively safe.

The able-bodied women watched with several of the men, including the sailors who had little to do but wait for the outcome of the battle, and their orders to sail for home.

Time meant little, compressing like the telescope Laura had left behind, until the two sides seemed to be arranging themselves in some semblance of order.

The French moved first. Puffs of smoke, insubstantial against the cold blue sky signalled the first discharge of artillery, but they were too far away to hear much. Small clumps and whumps sounding positively gentle indicated the heavy roar Laura knew from experience deafened at close quarters. Four orderly columns advanced down the hill, towards the British. Michael would be stationed with his regiment, the West Kents, standing with the Black Watch under the command of Lord William Bentinck. Laura remembered his lordship, his easy good manners, his air of command, and hoped he was as good a soldier as she thought he was.

This would be easy, Michael had said, making light of it for her sake. But the long march had exhausted both sides; neither was truly battle-ready. It could go either way.

The black and silver surged forward, near a village the name of which escaped her. The soldiers clashed. Laura and Mrs. Birkiss heard the cries, brought to them on the sea breeze, as insubstantial as the artillery fire had seemed. Michael was there with his fellow officers, urging the men on, directing the attack, leading them into battle, and she remembered him in control of his men, so different to the Michael she knew and loved. No softness in his face now, only determination and the light of battle in his eyes. It had been a revelation to her; that quick command, the confidence and knowledge he brought to the job.

Laura gasped as the blue and red scattered and the black remained constant. The French were in retreat, but this was just the opening skirmish. She glanced at Mrs. Birkiss. For all her vaunted calm, the older woman’s face was as tense as Laura’s, jaw set, staring compulsively towards the shore at the terrible clash of arms. Occasionally they saw a flash as a bayonet caught the sunlight; the sound swelled and eddied around them, borne by the wind and taken away by the next buffet.

The action moved over to the other side of the valley, where the columns clashed and surged forward. It all seemed unreal at such a distance; the anxious onlookers could only see the vaguest details, like something too far away to concern them.

The sounds on the deck were only of creaking ropes and wood, flapping sails and the surge of the sea against the side. No human voices. Below, the noise subsided. Laura was no longer conscious of anything but the tiny figures she strained to see on the shore. Without needing to look around, she knew everyone beside her felt the same. They pressed against each other, watching intently, their tense silence broken only by the sailor who held a telescope; who could tell them what he could see.

They’re advancing, he said. Our boys; they’re definitely gaining ground.

Soon everyone could see the advances made. The regimentals looked cheerful and unsullied at this distance; neither of which was true. Major Wickenham had tried to keep his wife away from the worst of it, but she knew as well as anyone here what had happened on the long march over the mountains. Dispirited and spiteful, the British army had wreaked its revenge on the villages they passed through; looting and raping without mercy. The officers had done their best, but there was little they could do. Sir John Moore despaired, determined not to let it happen again under his command, powerless to stop it.

It wasn’t until she moved slightly that Laura realised she was stiff and sore from standing in the same position. Her concentration had been away from her body; concentrated on the distant action before them. Time ceased to matter; only the massed regimental colours surging and retreating meant anything at all.

The puffs of smoke sent up from the rifles became less frequent. Artillery fire was rare at the height of the battle; it was all bayonet work. Laura thought of the wounds bayonets could inflict and felt sick. She would be busy tonight. She refused to stay aloof, when there was something she could do to help, however little.

Mrs. Birkiss suddenly cried; I think the worst is over. The French are falling back. Look! There are some men on the shore!

And indeed, small figures were boarding the boats moored at the shore, ready to bring them to the fleet which stood, every occupant of every ship waiting to discover the outcome. Laura began to pray.

* * * *

Orderly confusion reigned as dusk fell and the ships began to fill with exhausted soldiers. When the first came aboard, they brought the dreadful news; Sir John Moore had been killed at the height of the battle. They were going to bury him at nightfall. Lieutenant-General Sir John Hope commanded them now.

The news devastated Laura. Sir John had been a good man, much distressed when his troops ran riot. Britain would miss his leadership sorely in the long campaign ahead, for assuredly this war in Spain had a long way to go.

One or two of the soldiers glanced at Laura, but they didn’t approach her. She felt something cold in her stomach, but made herself busy helping to dispense hot soup to the able-bodied and directing the disposition of the wounded. So far, Michael wasn’t among them. As an officer, he would remain ashore until his men embarked. Laura tried not to worry, and carried on with her self-imposed tasks.

Nightfall came, and the men still boarded the ships, with no hindrance from the French. Laura saw Mrs. Birkiss again, wreathed in smiles while she hugged a scrawny, tall man to her ample chest. Laura felt a lift when she saw her new acquaintance reunited with her husband, and waited patiently for her own man.

At last, the officers came aboard. Laura was leaning over a man with a nasty wound on his leg, trying to keep the contents of her stomach down while she dealt with the worst of the bleeding, when she felt a touch on her elbow. At once, despite her fatigue, she stood up and turned around, an eager smile wreathing her lips.

Her heart sank. It wasn’t Michael. A captain from his regiment stood before her, grey faced with fatigue and distress. Laura waited, forcing panic down, telling herself the officer’s grave expression was born of fatigue but still, the fear tied her stomach into knots, and froze her senses.

He reached out and took her trembling hand gently in his. Mrs. Wickenham, ma’am, he was brave. He led his men all the way, took them into the heat of the battle. He fell. He must have died instantly. He felt no pain. The old lies.

After only six months with the army, Laura knew better than to believe him, but she hoped. She prayed it had been quick.

It would never be Michael again, touching her shoulder gently after a battle. She would never see him again, hear his laughter, feel the caress of his lips. She listened, and then closed her hand over the few items the captain gave her; the locket he always wore with her miniature in it, a few crumpled letters.

How she wished they’d let him keep the locket! It would have been something of her to keep him warm in the cold, cold nights. They would bury him here with his commanding officer and the men who had fallen with him. Perhaps in time she could send for him, and lay him to rest in his family plot.

She couldn’t cry. She just stood, numb, while the blackness seeped in and took her. No feeling, no emotion. Nothing.

Despite people trying to make her come away to eat and rest, Laura worked all night trying to help the men Michael had been so proud of, the men who hadn’t saved him. No other woman should have this news brought to her if she could help it.

The physical work made her forget her own tragedy and stopped her thinking about the empty future, stretching ahead of her, dreary years of it. How could she bear it?

She remembered the name of the village, the name she would never forget.

Elvina.

Michael died at Elvina, together with her love.

Chapter One

November 1812. London.

Laura Wickenham alighted from her travelling carriage with the help of a footman, suffused with a feeling of well-being at the sight of her London home. The journey had seemed much longer than a day and she was glad to be back. She’d set out that morning and it was barely four o’clock now, but the shorter winter nights meant twilight came early.

Stripping off her sensible leather gloves, she walked up the steps to the front door where her butler awaited her. His warm smile exposed him as an old retainer, fond of ‘his’ family. He closed the door gently behind her and waited while she took off her feathered hat and fashionable blue pelisse. She handed them to the waiting footman with a smile.

Laura gave a small sigh of satisfaction. Well, Hartley, she said, looking about her, it’s good to be back! The small hall with its black and white chequered floor and gilded, delicate staircase at the end were so familiar to her she could have found her way around it blindfold. Three years ago if people had told her she’d find such contentment from everyday life she’d have laughed in their faces, if she could have found a laugh anywhere within her. Years of scandal and then the tragedy of her husband’s early death had taken laughter away from her for a long while. Every day she gave thanks for her renewed contentment, lost for so long after Michael’s death.

I trust her ladyship has recovered from her malaise? Hartley asked. His voice was quiet, mellifluous, just a touch of concern tingeing it.

Laura smiled at him. Yes thank you, my sister is quite recovered. Who would have thought she hadn’t had the measles before? Phyllis and I had it years ago, do you remember?

Hartley inclined his head, the perfect, stately butler.

Is her ladyship at home?

A new, warning tone entered Hartley’s voice. Yes, ma’am, and if I don’t mistake the matter she is most anxious to talk with you.

Laura cast him a wry glance. Oh Lord! Whatever is it now? She turned back to Hartley, halted in the act of heading for the stairs. May I have some tea?

By all means, ma’am. I’ll have some sent up. He glided off to attend to his duty.

Stopping only to check her appearance in the mirror and tweak one dark, glossy curl back into place, Laura hurried up the marble staircase and into the large saloon on the first floor where her eldest sister spent most of her afternoons. She smelled new furnishings and tea, and looked around the room and its modern, fashionable trappings with pleasure. Mary lived in an old family house, full of furniture not chosen by its present incumbents. Here, the choices had been those of Laura and Phyllis.

Laura! cried Lady Greaves.

Laura crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek before settling in a spindle-legged gilt chair opposite. Oh, I’m so glad you’re back my dear! We’ve all missed you!

So am I glad to be back, Phyllis, Laura breathed, with feeling. The thick Aubusson carpet sank beneath her feet, and she looked around with quiet satisfaction at the engravings and the double portrait of their parents that hung opposite the windows. Laura and Phyllis had decorated this place themselves, almost from scratch. It had given Laura something to do after her first grief passed, while the year of her mourning crawled by. The inactivity and seclusion after a year following the drum had been almost too much to bear, and decorating their new house came as a welcome activity. It’s been a long journey.

Was it without incident? Phyllis asked, her gentle tones touched with anxiety. It’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be, but the heaths and commons around London are still rife with highwaymen and footpads. I’m almost afraid to leave the house!

Completely, Laura replied with a reassuring smile. We followed the Mail for the last part of the journey. Why, would you have liked to meet one? Highwaymen are reputed to be quite dashing, you know. She could never resist teasing her staid sister.

On this occasion she was disappointed when Phyllis ignored the remark with a tilt of her decidedly square chin. They knew each other’s ways so well.

How is Mary now?

Laura sighed. Completely back to her old self. Mary was her least favourite sister. Between Laura and Phyllis in age, she lived in the country with her husband and brood of children. While ill, Mary had been bearable, but her managing nature drove Laura into fidgets in the usual way of things. As soon as she recovered and began to question her sister pointedly about her friends and acquaintances in London, Laura began to plan her departure. Mary is convinced I would be happier married.

Phyllis frowned, creases marring her porcelain skin. She doesn’t understand. We’re perfectly happy here, aren’t we, Laura? She should mind her own family before she looks to ours. She folded her arms, a sure sign Mary’s meddling irritated her.

Laura agreed, and said so. Her widowhood had been forced on her, but it was her choice to retain it. She didn’t lack for suitors, but she had no desire to replace Michael. No one could replace him.

It is good to have you back!

Laura gazed at Phyllis suspiciously through narrowed eyes. That had been too emphatic, too much of a welcome. Why? she demanded. She watched the shadow of trouble pass across her sister’s face. What scrape has Belinda got into this time?

Oh the dearest girl! Phyllis cried. No scrape at all, I assure you!

Now Laura was sure the trouble concerned her wayward niece, but she was forced to break off her interrogation when the maid came in with the tea things. While the girl set up and laid the small folding table, Laura studied her elder sister with misgiving. Phyllis’s face would hardly have betrayed her two and forty years were it not for the fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead. Her golden hair hid any silver hairs she might have won, and her eyes were as baby blue as they had been as a child. A life as a pampered child, then a pampered wife, then a comfortably circumstanced widow had given her face little opportunity to mature. Even the death of her husband, five years before, had only been a mild disappointment to Phyllis. Her passion was her only child, Belinda, wilful and pretty, with no fault her mother could discern.

Laura took her tea and dismissed the maid with a gentle word of thanks. As soon as the door closed, she said, Come on—out with it! What has she done now?

Phyllis said with gentle dignity, She has merely fallen in love with a kind young gentleman. I wanted your opinion on the matter, that is all. She lifted her chin.

She’s ever likely to fall in love, Laura remarked with some cynicism. At seventeen, that is what one spends most of one’s time doing.

Laura! Phyllis snapped, You know she is very old headed for her age! And you are barely seven and twenty yourself, so you can’t talk like an old maid!

Laura ignored the comment about her age. Most days, she felt much older. She’s too headstrong. You should discipline her more firmly.

And you weren’t? said her sister with a small, irritating smile.

That reminder of her one disastrous youthful indiscretion nettled Laura. It was something she preferred to forget. She sipped her tea and allowed her quick temper to subside within her. "That was an entirely different case, and our parents dealt with it smartly. Besides, I wasn’t an heiress. Belinda is.