“I’m to come?”
His eyes narrowed, the color darkening to the blue of midnight. “You are part of this militia. Every able-bodied Decatur man will take part in the siege. It will be long, tedious for the most part, but I intend to have Cato’s submission before the summer is out… whatever I have to do.” His eyes raked her face. His voice was now very quiet as he said, “Do you have difficulties with this, Portia?”
Her pause was infinitesimal but she knew he’d marked it. She shook her head. “No.”
He continued to scrutinize her countenance, as intently as if he would see into her mind, then he said, “I am assuming Granville will be well prepared for a siege. Is that a correct assumption?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice low. “He has stocks of grain, his cellars are full. I saw the preparations when I was there.”
Rufus’s face was expressionless. “But there is one thing he does not have in plentiful supply. One thing that he and his people cannot live without. Do you know what that is, Portia?”
She frowned, thinking. But her impressions of Castle Granville had been of an impregnable stronghold. Run with superb efficiency. Nothing left to chance. She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
He smiled but there was no warmth, no humor, no pleasant quality to the smile. “You’ll discover soon enough.” Then with a short nod he strode away.
In the hole left by his departure, Portia became aware of movement, of excitement. Men were running, calling, the drums were beating the roll call, and trumpets blasted from every watchtower, summoning any who were absent from the village. The time for skirmishes was over. The men of Decatur were going to take part in their first real engagement of the war.
And what of the innocent people in the castle? What of Olivia and Phoebe? The babies? Even Diana? What had they done to be made war on? To face starvation and privation? To see the enemy at their gate? To endure the attacks of battering rams and cannon? The relentless firing over the walls? All the miseries of a siege?
Portia could feel no excitement, only a swamping depression. She had to take part if she was to keep faith with Rufus. And yet she wanted nothing to do with it. And what was this secret he held that would bring the walls of Castle Granville tumbling to the besieger?
She went back to the cottage, her step lacking its customary buoyancy. But Juno made up for any shortage of ebullience as she pranced and darted ahead, investigating scents, disappearing headfirst down rabbit holes, her plumed tail waving in frantic excitement.
The cottage was quiet, the fire in the hearth low, used in these warm spring days only for heating water. Portia went upstairs to gather together her possessions. They were sparse; when laid upon the bed, the little pile looked almost pathetic. A change of underclothes, stockings, her buff jerkin, and two linen shirts. Absently she began to fold the squares of linen she used during her monthly terms, laying them on the pile. Then her hands stilled. She stood looking down at the bed.
Surely she was late this month. How late? She tried to think, to remember. But she’d never paid much attention to this monthly inconvenience. It came when it came, and it was always a nuisance. She knew very little about the workings of her own body, having had few female confidantes in her growing, and no one to take the place of a mother. When she’d first bled, she’d run to Jack in tears, certain some dreadful wound had opened in her body.
He’d been drunk, as usual, but he’d pulled himself together enough to tell her that it was just one of those things that happened to women and she’d have to put up with it. The next day, he’d taken her to see the madam of his favorite brothel in Glasgow. The woman had given the bewildered girl a rough-and-ready education in the facts of life, and Portia had managed her own affairs with very little attention ever since.
But that lack of attention had its disadvantages. She ran her hands down her body. It felt the same. If she had conceived, when would it feel different? She felt perfectly normal in herself. Surely if something as momentous as conception had occurred, she would have noticed something.
The front door flew open and banged shut below. “Portia… Portia… Portia!” The excited shrieks of the boys drove the disquieting puzzle from her mind for the moment.
“What is it?” She went downstairs.
“We got to get our things together ‘cause-”
“Yes, an‘ I want to take my soldiers,” Luke shrilled, interrupting his brother’s more measured speech. “Only I can’t find ’em… I thought I left ‘em with Silas, but he hasn’t got ’em.” He began to throw bedcovers on the floor, diving and swooping like a demented seagull.
Juno, who’d come in with the boys, joined in the hunt with excited yaps. Toby, bouncing on his toes to reach a wooden trumpet on the shelf above his bed, grabbed at the end of the shelf, bringing it toppling down on him in a shower of toys and wooden puzzle pieces.
“What the hell is going on?” Rufus’s voice, very close to a bellow, crashed through the turmoil. “It’s a madhouse in here.”
“They seem to think they’re coming with us,” Portia said. “They aren’t, are they?”
“I can’t leave them here. There’ll be no one to look after them,” Rufus pointed out above the continued hubbub. “Be quiet!”
The roar brought a moment’s silence. The children, totally unabashed, stopped and regarded their father inquiringly.
“You can’t take children to a siege,” Portia said. “It’ll be dangerous.”
Rufus ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Every able-bodied man is coming with us. You’re not suggesting I leave this pair to the care of the infirm, are you?”
That thought did not bear contemplation. “No, of course not. But surely there’s someone else. What about with the women at Mistress Beldam’s?”
“I’m not leaving them in a brothel.”
“I can’t see that that’s any more unsuitable than an armed camp,” Portia said.
“What’s a brothel?” Toby inquired.
“A place where women live,” Portia answered.
“We don’t want to live there,” Luke said with disgust.
“No… not there,” Toby agreed vigorously, wrinkling his nose. “I got to find my soldiers!” He returned to the hunt with renewed enthusiasm.
Rufus stood frowning as the noise level rose anew. “They have to come,” he said finally. “It’s not as if we’ll be fighting a pitched battle.”
“It’s your decision.” Portia turned back to the stairs. “You’re their father.”
“But I value your opinion.” Rufus followed her, leaving the uproar behind them.
“Then answer me this. You’re the earl of Rothbury. No longer an outlaw… no longer a moss-trooper. You have your estates back. You will rebuild your house. You’ll take your place in the world of law. Where are the boys going to fit into that society?”
Rufus realized that in all his careful, ruthless planning, and now in the flush of triumph, he hadn’t given thought to such issues. He hadn’t even considered how he himself would fit into that society. He’d left it at the age of eight. He had no practice in its rules or its customs.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead…” Then with a flash of defensive impatience, “For God’s sake, Portia, I only received the news this morning. And we’re in the middle of a war. I have other things on my mind.”
“Yes, of course you do.” Portia turned once more to the clothes on the bed. “I’ll see to the boys’ packing, and ours. I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere.”
Rufus hesitated, puzzled by the tenor of the conversation. He had the feeling that he was missing something, that Portia had some point she was trying to make, but it had eluded him. “I really don’t see any alternative to taking the boys with us,” he said, returning to what had begun the discussion.