This Month's Excerpt

March 2010 from Robt Hale Ltd
COMING HOME

CHAPTER ONE

Portuguese border
5th May, 1811

A dust pall hovered over the Fuentes ridge and the distant village of Fuentes de Oñoro.

Colly Hetherington stood alone, rubbing the old sabre scar that snaked down his torso beneath the tatty silver lacing on his uniform. The stiff leg and ugly scar kept his life—and imminent death—in perspective.

As he squinted through the haze, the raucous shouts of his brigade celebrating victory punctured the still air. Brigade-Major Hetherington did not regard the deaths of four officers and twenty-four soldiers as cause for jubilation, but he understood the survivors’ need for the affirmation of life.

Today he’d lost yet another good friend.

Year after year the bodies piled up, and year after year he made himself the same promise: make acquaintances not friends. Year after year he broke his promise.

But today when he’d seen Lieutenant Nate Carthew’s convulsing body finally lie still, something within him changed. Despair replaced the biting anger. Enough, something inside him cried. He’d had enough.

Stony-faced, aching inside, he heard a sergeant from the 60th scream, “A pox on Messena!”

“May the duchess cuckold Rivoli until she’s blind!” someone else chimed in.

Bottles of aguadiente, contributed by grateful residents from Fuentes de Onoro and Almeida, clashed together.

Colly heard someone scrambling up the slope behind him and spun around, his hand on his short sword. 

“Sir, the baggage train has arrived. There’s a letter for you.”

“For me?” He stared at Lieutenant Worboys in surprise. He rarely received letters. From the day his father had banished him from the family home, only his grandmother had shown any interest in his well-being. And he had heard nothing from the redoubtable old lady for months.

Then he glimpsed the thickness of the folded paper and stretched out a hand. Of course. The letter would be from John. Lord John Trewbridge had, until recently, been an exploring officer attached to the 71st. Eagerly Colly turned it over. Yes, the Trewbridge seal was affixed. John must now be living at the family estate. Lucky man. Colly had stayed for a short time at Trewbridge after the Corunna debacle and he could not think of a more peaceful corner of England in which to live.

Slapping at the mosquitoes, he dropped to the grass and propped his back against a spindly cherrylaurel tree.

News from home. His blood surged with anticipation as he ran a dirty thumbnail through the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper.

He read it and damn near choked in shock.

Green trees and green grass. Cold ale. He was going home!

Dear Colly,

We hope this letter reaches you. Knowing the vagaries of army mail, all we can do is hope.

We are writing to offer you the position of steward of the Trewbridge estates. As you grew up on a big estate we are sure you can easily handle the work. Furthermore, we trust you. The parents were greatly taken with you when you came to stay after Corunna.

Colly tried to swallow, but his dry throat closed. They trusted him.

He felt tears of weakness welling up and screwed shut his eyes, but the droplets forced themselves from beneath his eyelids. They coursed down the grooves on his face and tickled the corners of his mouth. Swiping at them with a grimy hand he thanked God there was no-one around. The last time he had cried was the day his father had told him, “We can’t trust you, boy. You are lying.”

So he had left. He’d had no choice.

But now he had a chance at redemption. Not with his own family—-it was too late for that—-but with the Trewbridges. He snatched up the letter again.

There have been some unfortunate incidents and my older brother is dead. In due time I shall inherit, although I wish I could change the circumstances.

Our steward retired recently and Father and I are endeavouring to run four estates between us.

I am to be married shortly. You will remember the sheep-minded Miss Ninian.

Colly stopped reading for a moment to savour John’s phrasing. Yes, he remembered the spirited Miss Ninian very well. She had possessed an amazing affinity with animals.

We need you, Colly! Please say you will sell out and join us. Father requested me to point out that this tenure is for as long as you wish it.

Your friend

J.T.”

Colly stared into the distance. He was useful here. Two rapid promotions and a cash bonus attested to that. But there were others to take his place.

The Trewbridges wanted him specifically.

If he returned to England, and if the Fates smiled on him, (hah!) he might one day achieve his dream of owning a small estate. He gazed into the shimmering heat haze. A lot of ‘ifs.’

He re-read the letter and grimaced, wondering what ‘unfortunate incidents’ had brought about the death of Spencer Trewbridge. The man had been a shocking loose screw, and Colly would bet his last guinea that Spencer’s demise had something to do with the dreadful people he hobnobbed with. If even half the stories told about him were true, the Trewbridges were well rid of him.

John, however, would make an excellent marquess when the time came.

Could Colly help John maintain the Trewbridge traditions and assets?

He’d give it a damned good try.

***

Six weeks later, his scars chafing in the vicious summer heat, Colly rode wearily into Porto and headed towards the docks. His Portuguese was execrable, so he waylaid a boy who looked to be in desperate need of a centavo or two. “Ah...com licença, Rapaz,” he stammered.

The boy glanced up, grinning. He’d no doubt heard his language mangled by Frenchmen and Englishmen alike. By a mix of sign language and mentioning “hospedaria puro,” Colly managed to explain that he was seeking clean accommodation. The boy gestured straight ahead, then curved his arm around to the right. At the same time he held out his left hand expectantly. A boy after his own heart, Colly thought. Keep it simple.

He followed the directions to a weathered, stone hospedaria that looked well cared for and asked—-again in sign language—-for a bath while his uniform was cleaned.

Before booking a berth to England, he intended to make a very important visit. He had no illusions about his appearance, but he wanted to look respectable.

As he shrugged out of his jacket he muttered, “Please God, let Juliana still be there.” Juliana with her healing hands and dark eyes full of secrets.

Yes, he knew he wasn’t fit to lick her little half-boots. But just to see her once more—-he’d travel a lot further than the road between Almeida and Porto for one of those shy, imperfect little smiles from Miss Juliana Colebrook.