It was all most extraordinary. Fired by curiosity now, Lucy began to write rapidly, following Gareth's suggestion that her brother might wish for a hostess if he was entertaining guests. She'd be happy to take on the duty for her dear brother and was looking forward to seeing him again after such a long time. She trusted he was well and sent her…
Here she paused. What did she send him? Her love?
No, that sounded contrived. Julian was always pleasant to her, but he'd always been somewhat distant and hadn't hesitated to exercise his authority as brother and guardian on the rare occasions when she'd been tempted to balk at the restrictions he and her mother considered necessary for a daughter of the house of St. Simon.
She settled for warm regards, sanded the sheet, folded and sealed it, then went in search of Gareth to frank it for her. Julian should be almost in Cornwall by now, since his letter had been dated a week previously, so this missive should arrive at Tregarthan a few days after his own arrival. Too late for him to write back and tell them not to come, and he was far too courteous to send them away once they arrived.
He could be very chilly, though. Lucy pushed this aside, finding herself eager for the change the journey promised. And Gareth would be with her for the next few weeks. There'd be no more nights spent with… with whomever he spent them. And maybe she could learn to please him a little… or at least to appear as if she didn't find that unpleasant tangling of bodies completely distasteful.
Feeling much more cheerful, she went into her bedchamber to examine her wardrobe and decide what she should take with her for a summer in Cornwall.
Did it ever stop raining in this ghastly gray country? Tamsyn leaned out of the window of the inn at Launceston, gazing across the jumble of slate roofs glistening and slippery with rain. It hadn't stopped since they'd landed at Portsmouth two weeks previously. It wasn't fierce and tumultuous, like Spanish rain; it was just a continuous wet mizzle, and the cold was so damp, it seemed to seep into the marrow of her bones.
Behind her in the small bedchamber, Josefa muttered to herself as she repacked the belongings they'd used overnight. She was not enjoying this sojourn in the cold, gray land where the sun never shone, but El Baron's daughter had said it had to be, a decree that for Josefa was as powerful as if it had come from the baron's own lips.
There was a brisk rap at the door, and Gabriel entered, ducking beneath the low lintel. Rain dripped off his heavy cloak. “You ready with that portmanteau, woman?”
“Ay de mi,” Josefa muttered, struggling with the stiff straps and buckles. “I'll be glad when we get where we're going.”
“Won't we all?” Gabriel said dourly. His big hand rested for a moment on her arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. At least he'd been born in this land, but it was an alien shore for a peasant woman from the barren mountains of northern Spain. She gave him a rather shy smile, then bobbed her head, basking in the surprising gentleness of his sudden smile. Gabriel was her man, the sun to her earth; she always walked two steps behind him, and his word was law.
Gabriel hefted the portmanteau. “Little girl, you're to travel inside the carriage today. Colonel's orders.”
“Since when has he been giving orders?” Tamsyn snapped irritably to Gabriel's retreating back. It seemed the last straw on this dismal morning. “I've no intention of being swayed and jolted in that chaise. It makes me feel sick.”
She followed Gabriel down the creaky wooden staircase, across the lamplit stone-flagged hall, and out into 'the gloomy inn yard, where stood the postchaise that had brought them from London, ostlers putting the horses to, one of them tethering Cesar behind.
Colonel, Lord St. Simon stood watching. His cloak was black with the drizzle, and a steady stream ran from the brim of his beaver hat, but he seemed oblivious of the weather.
“Good morning.” He greeted Tamsyn briskly. “I trust you slept well?”
“I always do,” she replied. “Even when the sheets are damp. Will it ever stop raining?”
He laughed shortly. “Yes, one day it will. One morning you'll wake up to bright-blue sky and sunshine and birdsong, and you'll forget all about the rain. It's one of England's tricks.”
Tamsyn grimaced, disbelieving, and huddled into her cloak, her hair already plastered to her head.
It was no weather for a buttercup, Julian caught himself thinking with a ripple of amusement. She looked shrunken and doleful, her bright hair rain-dark, her small body hunched into the heavy cloak, all her challenging, impudent sparkle vanquished by the dreary climate. Then he began to wonder what his brigade was doing, and his amusement died. If she didn't like the weather in her adopted country, she had only herself to blame.
How long had it had taken Tim to whip the men into shape after the excesses of Badajos? Where were they on the long march to Campo Mayor? Who was still alive? The questions as always roiled in his brain, and he had to force himself to come back to the rain-soaked yard of the inn at Launceston and his present preoccupations.
“I want you to travel inside the chaise with Josefa this morning,” he said curtly.
“So Gabriel said, but I don't wish to. I'd rather be wet than nauseated in that smelly, jolting box.” She turned to release her horse from the rear of the chaise.
Julian caught her arm. “I need you inside, Tamsyn.” “Why?”
“We're crossing Bodmin Moor,” he stated as if that were answer enough.
Tamsyn frowned. They'd arrived at Launceston early the previous afternoon, and the colonel had insisted they go no farther that day, citing in much the same tone as now the crossing of Bodmin Moor. “So, milord colonel?” She dashed rain from her face as she regarded him with raised eyebrows.
“So, buttercup,” he replied deliberately, “I need you to ride with your damned treasure. Gabriel and I will be outside as a first defense, and you will be armed and ready within.”
“Oh. Are there bandits on this Bodmin Moor then?” Her expression livened considerably. '
“We call them highwaymen,” he said with an arid smile. “But they're as savage and ruthless a breed as any mountain brigand or robber baron.”
Tamsyn decided to let that pass. “Gabriel has my weapons. I'll fetch them.” She went off immediately, her step much crisper at the prospect of a little excitement to enliven this dreary journey.
Julian stamped his feet on the cobbles and turned up the collar of his cloak, running a mental check over his own weapons. “Into Bodmin and out of this world” was what the locals said when preparing to cross the bleak, windswept moor. Apart from his school years he d grown up at Tregarthan, the St. Simon family estate overlooking the River Fowey, and considered himself as much a Cornishman as the landlord of this Launceston inn, steeped in the lores and customs of the county. And he loved every blade of grass, every flower of the hedgerow. He took pleasure in the thought of getting his hands on the reins of his estate again, of walking around his house, riding over his lands. If he was truly honest, there would be some compensation for this enforced rustication.
He'd made some progress on Wellington's account in London, presenting to the lords of Westminster the Duke's urgent need for more men and money. They'd listened to him with flattering attention and suggested he return in a month to answer further questions once they'd had a chance to mull over the duke's request. The wheels of government turned very slowly, and Julian had not expected any immediate decisions. He'd written to Wellington with what news he had and was resigned to returning to London in July, when he hoped there'd be more concrete results to impart. He knew this politicking was vital work, but it was dull work, nevertheless, for a man who thrived on the smell and sound of gunfire, the challenges and privations of forced marches, and the quirks and vulgarities, the courage and the foolishness, of the common soldier. Not even the prospect of his own house and land could truly compensate for that loss.