Coming Home (3 page)

J
ULIANA HURRIED ALONG the dusty pathway beside the Douro. Mr Hetherington had given her an idea. She could not travel alone, but it might be possible to employ a companion at the English receiving office, perhaps an officer's widow. She was half-English, was she not? Therefore she was entitled to go to the English receiving office.

Her heart quickened as she thought of her narrow escape. To think the brigade-major had
admitted
to her that—She stopped walking and shook her head. Actually, he had admitted nothing. He said he'd been accused, not that he'd committed rape. Puzzled, she wondered why he'd said anything at all. She would never have known if he'd kept quiet about it.

She felt a lumpy constriction in her throat and swallowed hard to get rid of it. Brigade-Major Hetherington had been woven into the fabric of her daydreams for so long that she would find it nigh on impossible to forget him. She'd never realized that one's heart could actually ache.

She trudged on, dispirited, and felt a drop of rain on her face. ‘
Inferno
!' she muttered under her breath. Glancing up, she saw the lowering clouds jostling on the horizon. Just what she needed on one of the worst days of her life – a brisk five-mile walk in the rain.

By the time she arrived at the receiving office her parasol was sodden and so were her skirts and half-boots. It did not help that she'd had to grip the cracked handle of the parasol tightly to hold it together. Inside her gloves her fingers were numb.

The desk clerk eyed her. ‘Yes, miss?' he enquired.

She swallowed her annoyance. In the northern part of the city she was well-known, even respected, but down here by the docks they probably thought she was a camp-follower trying to earn her fare home.

‘My name is Miss Juliana Ervedosa Colebrook. I am a nurse at Sao Nazaire.'

The clerk straightened up and hastened to bring a chair. ‘Do sit down, miss. I'll call Miss Ffitch, the manager.'

Miss Ffitch bustled in full of sharp good humour, but when she heard what Juliana wanted, she shook her head. ‘Oh no, Miss Colebrook. None of the women here is a suitable companion for a respectable lady.'

For a moment Juliana mused whether perhaps the women were suitable companions for unrespectable ladies. She gazed about her. She'd been so intent on her quest that she had not taken particular notice of her surroundings. A number of tough-looking women sprawled on benches set around the room.
Dios
! She had never seen such a motley group, even when she'd travelled the by-roads between Coimbra and Porto. Uncertainly she asked, ‘Are these the only applicants available?'

Miss Ffitch sighed. ‘Yes. At the moment. All likely workers are snapped up immediately. A few of these are seeking work as scullery maids and such-like. The rest …' Here, Miss Ffitch gave an expressive shrug that Juliana took to mean that the women would soon find themselves on the streets.

‘Oh! Well, perhaps one of the scullery maid applicants might be suitable? '

Miss Ffitch stood firm. ‘No, Miss Colebrook, I couldn't do it. Before you got anywhere near the ship you'd find yourself without a penny to your name and probably a black eye and broken arm as well.'

‘'Ere,' interrupted one of the more scrofulous applicants who was sitting on the front bench, eavesdropping. She lurched to her feet. ‘This woman wants a maid!'

Suddenly Juliana found herself surrounded by an importuning, filthy rabble. Startled, she shrank back, treading on Miss Ffitch's sturdy shoes.

‘Get away with you!' Miss Ffitch barked. ‘Go back to your seats and wait, else you can leave.'

Grumbling, the women obeyed, some of them still eyeing Juliana hungrily.

Juliana's heart settled back to its normal rhythm.

‘My dear,' Miss Ffitch said, ‘why don't you talk to the booking-office clerk? He would know if any ladies booked to sail have need of a companion.'

Juliana thanked her, but she didn't hold out much hope. Those ladies already booked would have had plenty of time to find travelling companions. However, if she could secure a cabin she might be able to befriend a woman who was already on the manifest.

She
must
escape. Her work at the hospital was untenable. So much needless death. Each morning she had to steel herself to walk through the big blue doors to face another working day. Her only bastion against the horror was the chance that she might escape it one day.
And she was so alone. She
must
get a berth on a ship sailing to England as soon as possible. Her relatives would not wait forever. By now they might have written her off, since it was a twelve-month since they'd corresponded.

She plunged out into the rain once more and headed towards the docks. But the clerk at the booking office dashed her faint hope. ‘I'm sorry, miss. All cabins are taken on both the
Resolution
and the
Maximus
. Some people have been waiting for weeks. We always hold one cabin in reserve and that was taken a short time ago.'

Probably taken by Brigade-Major Hetherington, Juliana thought. She shivered. Lord, she'd had a narrow escape there. So much for all her silly daydreams….

There was only one thing to do: return to the hospital and endure as best she could until the next ship arrived. She would book it in advance. At least she had a plan now, although she still had to find a reliable travelling companion.

‘Miss?' the booking clerk offered, as she turned away. ‘You could come by on sailing day because sometimes people don't turn up.' He shrugged as if to say that people like that were inexplicable. ‘I can put you on our waiting list.'

But when Juliana signed her name, she saw there were already several names before hers. She had had no idea so many people were anxious to leave Porto. Not all the people milling about the booking office were speaking English. Some spoke German and others spoke a strange language that some of her patients had informed her was Gaelic. And it seemed that all of them wanted to reach England – the sooner the better.

‘We hope that sailing day will be Wednesday,' the clerk explained. ‘The ships are just outside the estuary now.'

What should she say to Dr Barreiro? How could she tell him she might be leaving his employ suddenly? And then again, she might not.

The grinding ache in her stomach began to nag again.

She plodded back along the river path, her sodden skirts clinging to her ankles. Inside her half-boots the soles of her feet felt as if she were walking on stinging nettles, but that was too bad. She had to get back to Sao Nazaire quickly. Dr Barreiro had given her permission to go out for a couple of hours, not the entire afternoon.

‘What the hell are you doing?' demanded an irate voice.

Oh, God. Brigade-Major Hetherington. And she looked like a drowned rat. Not of course that it mattered when one considered what sort of person he was, but just the same …

‘I – I'm going back to the hospital,' she responded with what she hoped was dignity. Her chin rose.

He fell into step beside her. ‘Miss Colebrook, we are a good five miles from Sao Nazaire. Do you intend to walk all the way?'

‘Why not? I walked all the way down here.' Now she sounded
really
snappish. Her feet burned and her shift stuck to her body like a family of leeches.

‘Have you been down to the wharves?'

His voice had softened a little, so she risked a glance up at him. He had not offered his arm. For which, of course, she was thankful. He walked a careful couple of paces away from her. Then she saw his face twist in pain as he stumbled over the rocky edge of the path. He muffled a curse and surreptitiously rubbed his thigh.

‘Here,' she said crossly. Swapping her reticule and parasol into her left hand, she held out her right arm. It was perfectly safe, she told herself. It was daylight and there were many people about.

He hesitated, then growled, ‘I'm fine, thank you. I do not need your support.'

She did not bite out words like ‘ungrateful' and ‘idiot' because she had seen the dreadful conflict in his eyes. ‘It is the weather,' she explained. ‘All old wounds ache in Porto.'

He nodded brusquely, dismissing her comment.

‘It is so,' she insisted. ‘Dr Barreiro says that Porto's changeable weather is bad for bones and sinews that have suffered damage.'

Reluctantly he took her arm, but he kept a distance between them. Which was hopeless. He was so tall she had to trot to keep up with his paces, and when he held himself stiffly away from her the problem was compounded. She edged a little closer and, to her relief, he did not seem to notice. He was staring straight ahead, his face remote and stern.

After a few minutes he asked, ‘Were you trying to get on board the
Resolution
?'

‘
Sim
. But first I went to the receiving office.' And she explained the unsettling experience she'd had there.

He looked horrified. ‘I'm sorry for suggesting it then. I am out of touch – hey!'

One of Porto's open carriages was winding its way down the sloping road beside the river path. Brigade-Major Hetherington inelegantly shoved two fingers in his mouth and let go a piercing whistle. The carriage halted, waiting for them.

Juliana grinned. He mightn't speak much Portuguese but he could
get his message across. No doubt a whistle worked better on a battlefield than a shout.

He assisted her into the carriage and gratefully she sank on to the seat.

‘To Sao Nazaire,' Mr Hetherington said to the driver, mangling the vowels. As the carriage turned around, he sat down opposite her. She was surprised to feel disappointed.

‘This is wonderful,' she said shyly. ‘I couldn't find a carriage when … before.' She had almost said, ‘when you rushed off and deserted me at the tea shop.' Of course, she had
wanted
him to leave after his shocking revelation, but she hadn't expected to feel like a dropped package.

‘What did the booking clerk say, Miss Colebrook?' He had the disagreeably portentous look on his face that all men had when they were about to lecture an unfortunate female.

Inwardly she sighed. She knew it. He was going to go on and on about how she should give up her idea of travelling to England.

‘No cabins available,' she answered tersely.

‘Then—'

‘No! I will
not
give up!' she shouted. ‘I hate it here. I'm so tired of …' And to her shame she began to sob like a child. Pressing her gloved hands to her face she leaned forward and cried and cried. Why couldn't she stop? What was happening to her? This was terrible.

C
OLLY CLENCHED HIS fists. Her silent weeping jagged at his heart, but there wasn't a thing he could do.

Lord, he was an idiot. He should have realized she was at the end of her tether when she'd tried to persuade him to take her to England. But no, he'd let his angry pride get in the way of common sense.

‘Miss C—Juliana, please don't. I can't bear it when you …' He stretched out a hand towards her then drew it back quickly. No, Hetherington. Do
not
touch her.

Struggling to gain control, she scrabbled inside her soggy reticule and produced a tiny lace-edged handkerchief. He couldn't help smiling at the dainty two-inch wisp of fabric. What good did she think that would do?

‘Here.' He held out his much larger kerchief, thankful he'd changed his raiment at the inn.

She clutched at it blindly and it fluttered to the dirty floor of the carriage.

Colly picked it up. Sighing, he gave in. He stripped off his gloves and moved to sit beside her. ‘Excuse me,' he said, and attempted to dab her wet face. At the first touch of his hand on her cheek, she jerked back as if she'd been burnt.

‘I'm just wiping your face,' he growled. ‘Sit still.'

She froze.

He carried on as if he hadn't noticed. ‘The way I see it, we have two options.'

‘Options?'

‘Mmm.' He struggled to hide his enjoyment when his fingers brushed across her petal-soft skin. Then he crumpled up the kerchief and stuffed it back in his pocket. He moved back to the other seat. ‘You could use my cabin and I can sleep on deck. I did that on the way over here.' He tried to make light of one of the worst experiences of his life. Three years ago vicious gales had swept their little flotilla from Portsmouth
into Mondego Bay in record time. The majority he had purchased counted for nothing in the overcrowded ships and he had ended up sleeping on deck with the ordinary soldiers.

Which had turned out to be a fortunate thing. Seasick, green to the complex rules of army life, he had learned more up on deck from some of the old campaigners than he had ever learned at the military college at Farnham. All the same, he did not fancy a repeat experience.

‘Or,' he continued, ‘we could pretend we are married and share my cabin. I—'

‘What?' Miss Colebrook's delightfully accented, softly modulated voice rose to the volume of a banshee's shriek.

‘Damn it all! You want to go to England, don't you? You practically begged me to take you.' Indignation and embarrassment warred with each other in Colly's voice. So it wasn't to madam's liking? Well, that was the best he could bloody well suggest.

‘Begged? I think not.'

‘You were determined to come to England with me.'

‘Well … not with you in particular. I want to get to England and you are someone I knew and trusted.'

Colly noticed she used the past tense. ‘Unfortunately there are flaws in both schemes.'

‘Yes, I cannot afford the price of a cabin on my own,' she agreed.

He brushed that aside. ‘It's already paid for. But if you take the cabin on your own, we are back where we started. You will still need to find a companion.' He chose his next words carefully. ‘If we give the impression we are married, however, that will solve the problem.' Hah, he thought. It wouldn't solve any problems for him, being around her, breathing the very air she breathed, trying to pretend an aloofness he could never feel. God, what had made him suggest such a ridiculous solution?

You know very well why you suggested it
, his conscience muttered.
And, as Father said, you are the unwisest man ever born
.

Juliana sat bolt upright on her seat, clutching her reticule like a lifeline. ‘Sir, I don't think—' She tried again, obviously searching for a polite way to say no. ‘It wouldn't work,' she said at last.

‘Juliana,' he said softly, ‘do not be frightened of me. Please. I promise I would spend most of my time outside the cabin. Will you let me explain what happened when I was accused of … of rape?' There, he'd said the word that had pursued him ever since that appalling day when he'd realized that if his own father didn't believe him, then no one would.

She put out a hand in protest, as if to push him away. ‘Sir, I do not—' The carriage rocked to a halt outside the doors of Sao Nazaire. Colly jumped down and paid the driver, then turned to take Juliana's arm. But she had already stepped down and scuttled across the pavement towards the big blue doors. The doors shut with a slam that echoed around the square.

He stood on the doorstep watching the steam rising off the pavement as the sun came out from behind the clouds.

This was the end. She was not interested in his story, not interested in him. Even though she was desperate to leave Porto, she would endure a loathsome job rather than travel with him. And who could blame her?

Heart in his boots, he turned to walk away.

Suddenly the door behind him opened and the fetid hospital odour assailed his nostrils. Juliana stood there, looking at him from beneath lowered lashes. One hand clutched the doorjamb so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white. He could see the trace of a tear on her cheek. She took a deep breath. ‘I'm coming with you,' she said.