The Sentimental Soldier Read online

  THE SENTIMENTAL SOLDIER

  APRIL KIHLSTROM

  Prologue

  The Marquess of Wellington, Knight of the Garter, Duque da Victoria, regarded the young officer standing before him with great care. Colonel Harry Langford was a tall man with burnished brown hair and deep gray eyes. He was noted for both his courage and his intelligence, qualities Wellington valued greatly.

  “We won,” he said.

  Colonel Langford nodded.

  “We lost too many men,” Wellington added.

  Again the younger man nodded.

  “You think I should follow into France, don’t you?”

  That startled young Langford into breaking his pose. “That’s for you to say, sir,” he replied.

  “And you’ll trust whatever I say?” Wellington persisted. “Oh, do be seated,” he said, waving the colonel to a camp chair. “Tell me your thoughts. Your honest thoughts. And tell me what they are saying in camp.”

  Langford hesitated, but he was not a man who lacked courage, even about this. It was one of the reasons Wellington liked him so much.

  “Very well, sir. It looks as though we should follow the enemy into France,” Colonel Langford said carefully. “And that is certainly what most of the men are saying.”

  Wellington shot him a speculative look. “But not you?” he asked shrewdly.

  “I think,” Langford said, in the same careful way as before, “that things are often not what they seem.”

  Now Wellington smiled. It was a rare sight these days, even with the recent victories. “Very good,” he said. “And you’re right. I’ve had reports, disturbing reports, of what’s going on in the south of France. But I don’t know what's happening among the diplomats gathered on the continent. I only know they mean to negotiate treaties that may profoundly affect the direction of this war.”

  Wellington paused. His hands clasped behind his back, he said soberly, “I’ve also not had a report through the signal system you and your brothers created in over two weeks. I want you to go into France, make your way to where our man is supposed to be collecting information, and discover what is wrong. I should also like you to set the system going again, if that is possible.”

  “Certainly sir. If that is what you wish,” Langford said, his voice carefully neutral.

  Wellington shot him another shrewd look. “Think it’s a waste of your talents, don’t you? Well, and so it is. I don’t mean for you to take over the fellow’s post. I want you to take a man with you. He can pass for a native Frenchman and he will take over the post, if need be.”

  “Why send me at all?”

  “Because once you see him to his place, I want you to scout around. See what you can discover.” Wellington paused. “This is important, Langford. What I do next will depend a great deal on the information you bring back. Come and look here. I’ll show you on the map the areas I am particularly concerned about.”

  Chapter 1

  Miss Prudence Marland stood on the dock in London looking up at her uncle, Lord Marland. She wore the long flowing robes of a Moroccan prince and to all outward appearances she was a slightly built young man. She carried herself, moreover, with an assurance that would have sat well on a man twice the age she appeared to be.

  In a voice that carried only to the apparent prince’s ears, her uncle said, “I still wish you would change your mind, Prudence, and come to Prussia with me. I need you there, not going off on this mad enterprise.”

  She shook her head. Her voice was firm as she replied, “You know how inexperienced Stewart is! He needs, we need, to know what is happening in Spain. You know as well as I, Uncle Hugo, that the rumors are most disturbing. Rest assured that I shall join you the moment I know the truth.”

  The older man reached out and gripped her shoulder. “Be careful,” he said, and there was a fierceness in the tone that underlay the words. “We are not in Tangiers anymore, Prudence, and Moulay Soulaiman’s guards are not here to protect you. No, nor those of the consul, James Green, either. There, no one would have believed any woman capable of such a masquerade as this. But here, who knows? I do not like this mad scheme of yours. What if you are unmasked? I cannot bear to think of the consequences.”

  But Prudence met her uncle’s gaze calmly and her voice was steady as she replied, “I shall be most careful. Nor shall I be unmasked. Any oddities about my person will surely be ascribed to the simple fact of my being foreign. And you know that as an apparent prince I shall be granted access to Wellington, which I most likely would not be if I were to travel as myself.”

  “But the risk!”

  “Nonetheless,” she said, her chin tilted upward in determination, “this is still the safest way for me to travel and the risk must be taken.”

  The older man sighed again and let go of the other’s shoulder. “Very well. But join me as soon as you can. I shan’t have a moment’s peace until you do.”

  And then it was time to go. The older man boarded his ship headed to Prussia by way of the North Sea while Prudence boarded one bound for Spain. There were mutterings at the sight of her, but good money had been paid for her passage. Prudence knew the captain was not likely to change his mind and turn her away, no matter how much muttering there might be. Not when the apparent prince was prepared to pay triple the usual rates.

  But eyes followed every step Prudence took, her long robes swirling about her as she walked. She was careful to keep her stride long and confident and pretend not to notice the scrutiny she drew. Still, she was grateful when she finally reached the safety and privacy of her cabin.

  Neither Prudence nor her uncle spared a glance for the sky. Nor did they know that each of the captains cast a wary eye upward. Or that both men reminded themselves that there was too much money to be made if they sailed with the next tide to be put off by the hint of a storm. Both men were gamblers. And they trusted both their ships and their crews. When the tide turned both set sail.

  * * * *

  Colonel Harry Langford frowned. Ahead of him rode Bertrand Vallois, the perfect picture of an aging French school teacher. Harry’s own disguise did not sit nearly so well. How on earth had he agreed to let himself be dressed up as a priest and called Père Alain?

  It had been Wellington’s suggestion, of course. Now who was it had predicted just such a fate for him? Was it his father’s friend, Sir Thomas Levenger? No matter, the situation felt very uncomfortable to Harry. But lives were at stake and it was true that no one had bothered them on their journey north.

  A small French village came into sight and the other man slowed to let Harry come along side. They watched as several children ran toward them. In flawless French, Harry’s companion greeted the children and told them he was a teacher. He did not ask about the heart of their dilemma. He didn’t have to.

  “Monsieur, have you come to help Monsieur Thierry? He broke his leg and lies in bed all day. We have not had a class in weeks.”

  The colonel let out a silent sigh of relief, careful not to let it be seen. Phillipe was a good man and Harry was relieved to know he was safe.

  His companion leaned down and placed a hand on the child’s head. “Yes, mon petit, we are here to see Monsieur Thierry. Will you show us where he is?”

  In answer, the child nodded then turned and headed off at a run.

  Harry laughed. He could not help himself. “Lentement,” he called out. “Slowly, mon petit. We cannot make our mules go as fast as you do.”

  The boy stopped and grinned cheekily at them over his shoulder, but he did go on at a slower pace. The other children crowded around, also eager to be of service. They chattered about the village, about the injured teacher, about the men who were away at war. And about the rare messages
they sent home to their loved ones. It was to these that Harry listened most closely.

  Too soon they were at the house where Monsieur Phillipe Thierry lodged. One of the boys offered to look after the mules for them and the two men agreed.

  They found him tucked into bed, an old woman at his side, feeding him soup. His face was drawn into dark lines of resignation. The sight of Langford and his companion, however, changed all that.

  The soup was forgotten as the old woman set it aside and hastily wiped her hands on her skirt. She curtseyed to the two men.

  Harry’s companion greeted her amiably while Harry went to grasp the hand of the man in the bed. In softly spoken French he said, “How are you, my old friend?”

  “My leg.”

  Phillipe Thierry said the two words as if they explained everything. And they did.

  “The children told us it was broken. Is it healing well?” Langford asked.

  “Healing well enough if I had not injured it all over again. Now I can do naught but stay in this bed all day. I have not been able to watch in far too long.”

  Harry patted the other man’s shoulder. “I’ve brought someone to help,” he said.

  “Not you?”

  In spite of his obvious pain, the other man’s eyes twinkled with mischief. Harry gave a Gallic shrug. “Alas, the Holy Father has other plans for me. I was only to accompany Monsieur Bertrand Vallois here and then I am to be away on the Holy Father’s business elsewhere.”

  A quick nod of understanding. An answer equally carefully worded. “But this Monsieur Vallois, he will stay? He can teach the children for me?”

  “That is what we plan,” Harry answered gravely.

  Phillipe sank back against the pillows. “Bon. It will do,” he said. “When we are alone, later, I shall tell Monsieur Vallois all about the children. And what he must do.”

  “Bien.”

  Bertrand looked over then and an unspoken message passed between the three men. He and the apparent Père Alain changed places. Harry drew off the older woman, on the pretext of asking about Monsieur Thierry’s condition. By the bedside the other two men murmured, as though perhaps Monsieur Thierry and Monsieur Vallois were discussing the children.

  Harry knew better. By the time they were done, Bertrand would know all there was to know about Phillipe’s responsibilities. He would be prepared, both to be a school master and to watch for the messages that would be coming from England.

  Ah, they had stopped talking. With the smallest nod of his head, Vallois signified that he had the needed information.

  “Merci, ma mère,” Bertrand told the older woman as he came away from the bedside. “We will leave Monsieur Thierry in your capable care. We will go and prepare the school for classes tomorrow.”

  The woman’s face lit up with a smile. “Classes? You will teach classes? Tomorrow?”

  Monsieur Vallois nodded. Again he gave her the courtesy title of mother as he said, “It is past time, do you not think, ma mère?”

  “Indeed, long past time,” she agreed.

  They left the small home with a promise to return later, for she assured them she had room for two more guests, and walked the short distance to the schoolhouse.

  “Someone has been in here, taking care of this place,” Harry said, noticing the well-swept floor.

  Bertrand shrugged. “The women of the village. They will have come. In hopes that Monsieur Thierry would soon be able to teach again. You cannot know what it means to them to know their children will learn when they did not have the chance. It is one of the few good things this revolution has done, to bring teachers to all children.”

  Harry gave his companion a sharp look but said nothing. Even a monster such as Napoleon, he supposed, could have his good points.

  * * * *

  The storm was a fierce one. Standing in the shelter of an outcropping, Bertrand and Harry watched the waves crashing against the shore. Both men seemed impervious to the rain that had already soaked them to the skin.

  “There will be no signals tonight,” Harry said over the roar of the storm.

  Bertrand’s lips quirked into a smile. “No. But the sea may yet yield up some surprises.”

  Harry frowned. “And what has that to do with us?”

  “Perhaps nothing. But according to Phillipe, sometimes the surprises are English.”

  Harry’s reply was caught by the wind. But it didn’t matter. Because before Bertrand could ask him to repeat it, they both saw something being tumbled toward shore. Harry was the first to realize it was a human being.

  In an instant, both men sprang forward to rescue the unfortunate creature from the sea. They waded into the crashing waves and grabbed for the figure and pulled him toward shore.

  They pulled the boy, for boy he seemed, far up onto the gravel. “Poor lad, it’s a miracle he reached shore, weighed down with these wet robes. As it is, he’s half drowned I think,” Bertrand said. “We’d best take him back to the village. Though what the locals will make of that, Arab as he is, I can’t think.”

  The boy groaned and they hastily turned him on his side where he spewed up the water he had swallowed. Then in a voice so weak they had to strain to hear, he said, in English, “Where am I?”

  Just as softly, but in French, Bertrand replied, “You are in France.”

  Was that a curse? Harry could not be sure. But a moment later the lad spoke again and his voice was stronger. It was also laced with a trace of fear as he said in French, “Ah, bon, I am home then.”

  Harry looked down at the lad and his voice was dry as he said, in the same language, “We might believe you, my son, if your French was not so execrable.”

  “And if you were not dressed in the robes of an Arab,” Bertrand added, for good measure.

  Now the lad struggled to sit. Alarm was patent in his face as he looked at both of them. So was cunning. Harry sighed.

  “No more lies, my son,” he said gently, still in French. “You are English. Or Arab. Or both. So much we can see. But do not fear, we shall not betray you.”

  “Why not?” the lad demanded suspiciously.

  “Because we do not,” Bertrand said, a tremor of both bemusement and amusement in his voice, “betray women, ma petite.”

  Harry gaped at Bertrand then looked more closely at the lad. The boy had lost his head covering and his cropped curls gave him an effeminate look to be sure, but it was the way the wet robes were plastered to the body that truly betrayed the young woman’s secret.

  Seeing where the apparent priest’s gaze had settled, she looked down at her chest. And cursed. Fluently. In a language Harry ought not to have known, but he did.

  “You’ve spent time along the Barbary Coast,” he said, startling her. “But I’ll vow you were never raised in a harem. Not if you would undertake such a masquerade as this.”

  It seemed he had rendered her speechless. Perhaps that was just as well. Bertrand took advantage of her silence to discuss possibilities with Harry.

  “We cannot take her back to the village,” Bertrand said soberly in rapid French.

  “What do we do with her then?” Harry replied.

  Bertrand raised his eyebrows. “We? Me, I stay. With Monsieur Thierry. But you, you must take her and leave. Tonight. Take both mules. I will bring you food and dry clothes to take with you. But you must be well away before morning. Before anyone sees her. Even now we must move to a safer hiding place. The villagers, they may come to see if anything has washed up on shore. You say she has been on the Barbary Coast, but I’ll swear she’s English, for all that, and we dare not let her be found.”

  Harry nodded. He grasped the young woman’s hand and pulled her to her feet. When she staggered, he slid an arm around her waist to support her.

  “Come. We must do as he says. Quickly.”

  She came. Either because she trusted these two strange men or because she was too weak to do otherwise. Either way, Harry was grateful she did not stop to argue.

  Chapter 2r />
  They rode side by side silently. Harry kept a worried eye on the young woman beside him. She swayed in her seat as though about to fall off the mule at any moment and yet she managed to hang on.

  He also waited for the inevitable questions. But there were none. She was as docile as she had been since Bertrand Vallois had given her the nun’s robes to wear. Where the man had found them, Harry didn’t want to know.

  She had not liked them, that much had been evident. Neither Harry nor Bertrand could understand why she should have minded being dressed as a nun. After all, how different could this habit be from the Arabic robes she had been wearing when they found her?

  That was still a mystery, but one he did not have time to probe just yet. It was far more important to put distance between themselves and the village. Later he would try to question her further.

  As the hours passed and the young woman continued to say nothing, Harry began to wonder if perhaps the enormity of her circumstances had finally reached her. She had courage and determination, he had to grant her that for whenever he asked if she wished to rest, she refused and urged that they push on farther. Eventually, however, Harry called a halt.

  They stopped by a stream well out of sight of the road. It was a place he had stopped with Bertrand on their way north. As they sat side by side, he tried to ask her some questions. She was remarkably reluctant to answer.

  “Who are you? And where are you from?”

  She tilted her head to study him and for a moment Harry feared she had not understood his French. “Why,” she asked at last, in the same language, “should I tell you?”

  Harry laughed. “A fair enough question,” he agreed. “Perhaps because my friend and I saved your life? Because you have no choice?”

  “There are always choices,” she countered. “Besides, you are French.”

  “I am also,” Harry said gravely, for he and Bertrand had both agreed it would be best if she did not know the truth, “a priest. And it is therefore my duty to offer you my protection. Come child, do you not wish to make your confession to me?”