The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols
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caldo verde, a rich green cabbage soup which seemed to be the staple diet of the Portuguese.
In no time she had a fire lit in the kitchen stove and set a cauldron of water on it. Hungry as she was, a bath came before food. She dragged the bath down the stairs and set it before the kitchen fire, then went out to gather the cabbage leaves. By the time she had sliced the onions, set them on to boil and shredded the cabbage finely, the water in the pan was hot enough to add to the cold water she had already poured into the tub. She smiled to herself as she threw off her clothes and climbed into it. Once upon a time she had had a maid to fill her bath, help her dress and see to her hair. Her clothes had been clean and pressed and were always ready to put on. As soon as the slightest sign of wear or a tear had appeared, they had been discarded. She looked across at the peasant skirt and blouse she had been wearing for weeks and smiled; they were fit for nothing but the bonfire.
She slid down among the soap bubbles and imagined herself back at home. Her bath would be in her bedroom, where a fire would be blazing and all her clean clothes laid out on the bed. Jane would be fussing round her, soaping her back and helping to wash her red-gold hair. It had been long in those days but that had become impractical while she was following the colours, not only because she had no one to dress it for her, but because of the difficulty of keeping it clean and free from vermin. She had cut it very short and been surprised when it sprang into curls all over her head. She soaped it now and ducked beneath the water to rinse it, then came up laughing.
She was free! Gloriously and happily free! She felt no guilt because she had always done her very best for both Tom and Philippe, sharing the hardships of the march, scavenging for food, cooking in almost impossible conditions, cleaning their uniforms and even, on occasion, carrying their packs, when they were utterly exhausted. She had taken both for better or worse and now it was all over. Over!
Never again! She had had her fill of marriage. From now on she would keep her independence. She still had to find her way back to England, still had to face up to her father, but that was nothing compared with what she had endured in the last two years. Two years. Two years wasted. No, she decided, not entirely wasted; she had learned a great deal about herself, not all of it good, but she had emerged, she hoped, a little wiser. She began to sing as she soaped herself and the bath filled with bubbles.
‘The noble Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men, He marched them up to the top of the hill, And he marched them down again.’
‘Madame is in good spirits,’ said a voice in English.
She froze. Slowly she reached out for a towel and held it to cover her breasts, then turned her head towards the door. The man who had come in from the rain and was standing on the doormat knocking the water from his shako was the rider she had seen earlier. He was carrying a rifle and a dead hare. Was this his home? Was she the intruder or was he? She decided to attack first.
‘Is it not the custom where you come from to knock before entering?’
‘I did. You were making so much noise you did not hear.’
‘Noise, sir?’ She dared not move for fear of disturbing the bubbles which enveloped her. ‘Some have said I have a passably good voice.’
He smiled and walked over to the stove to sniff appreciatively at the pot; it brought him round to her front. ‘Is your mistress at home?’
‘My mistress?’ she repeated, then, realising he thought she was a servant, laughed. ‘I call no one mistress.’
‘You are surely not the lady of the house?’
‘No. I have never met her.’
He laughed aloud. ‘Oh, I see. An opportunist like myself. Are you alone?’
She hesitated, but there was no point in denying it; he would soon discover the truth. ‘Yes.’
He indicated the pot with a jerk of his head. ‘That smells good.’
‘The least a gentleman would do is leave a lady to finish her toilette in privacy.’
‘But I am no gentleman.’ There was a hint of bitterness in his voice which made her look up into his face. There were tiny lines etched around his eyes which could have been laughter-lines but could equally have been caused by long hours squinting into the sun. His mouth was firm and his teeth were strong and white; a handsome man, she decided, but refreshingly unaware of it.
‘No, that much is evident,’ she said crisply, and when he made no move to go picked up the bar of soap and hurled it at him. Her aim was good and it struck him on the side of the head, bounced off his shoulder and slithered to the floor. ‘Get out!’ she yelled.
He laughed and retrieved it, weighing it in his hand as if considering whether to throw it back. ‘Out?’ he asked mildly, appraising what he could see of her — a mane of red-gold hair, which lay against freckled cheeks in wet tendrils, a long neck and sloping white shoulders which disappeared behind the towel she was holding against herself. The vision was spoiled to some extent by hardened brown hands which were obviously accustomed to work. ‘But it is pouring with rain. And besides, I am hungry. Now if you were to share the pot with me I could provide something to improve its flavour.’ He waved the hare at her.
‘Go away and leave me in peace. I do not want or need your company.’ There was nothing else at hand to throw except the towel and she was loath to let go of that, and he showed no sign of doing as she asked. With nothing in her hand to defend herself, she was obliged to change her belligerent attitude to one of reasonableness; and the idea of meat made the saliva run in her mouth. ‘Can’t you see I am in no position to do anything about the soup or the meat with you hovering over me? And this water is becoming cold and I want to dress.’
He grinned. ‘I could do with a bath too. How about sharing it with me?’
‘If you go and leave me to dress, I will cook the hare and heat up some more water for you.’
‘That sounds like a fair bargain to me.’ He paused and pointed to the door into the rest of the house. ‘Have you been through there?’
‘Yes. It is empty, nothing to steal, I am afraid.’
‘What a disappointment for you.’
She was about to say she was referring to him and that she was not a thief when she remembered the clothes she had found and intended to keep. Instead she said, ‘Go and wait in the hall if you want any dinner.’
He made an ostentatious leg and left the room. As soon as she was sure he had really gone, she scrambled out and dried herself quickly, then dressed in her own underclothes and topped them with the dressing-gown she had found. She went to the door and called to him. ‘If you want a bath, you had better empty this one and draw more water.’
She went to stir the pot and skin the hare and did not know he had come back into the room until he spoke. ‘Where is the owner of this?’
She turned towards him. He was standing just inside the door holding Philippe’s coat at arm’s length. ‘Dead,’ she said flatly, returning to her task.
‘Who was he?’
‘My husband.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes. Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’
‘A Frenchman?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him boldly. ‘Does that change your mind?’
‘About what?’
‘About sharing a meal.’
‘No, why should it?’ He began dragging the bath towards the door. She watched as he opened the door, tipped it up and emptied its contents into the yard where the soapy bubbles dispersed in the puddles already there. He brought it back and stood it on end against the wall. ‘Is there anyone in the house at all?’
‘No. Unless they are hiding in a cupboard. There is a cellar, but