Page 16 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer (The Marlow Family #7)

Ellen sat with a quill poised in her fingers, and an empty page lay on the oak table before her.

After four weeks in Cork, the weather had not been good enough to sail.

She had written to her mother and to Penny to tell them where she was.

She had told her mother she was well, but impatient to complete their journey.

To Penny she had written a dozen amusing little stories of her adventures, describing Paul’s men and their atrocious ability to maintain polite language in her hearing – and about the women, who were kind and supportive yet kept their distance.

She had a woman to help her now, as a maid, cook, washerwoman and everything else, though currently, while they lived in the inn, her only duties were as a companion and ladies’ maid.

Ellen stared at the blank page. She wanted to write to her father, but she had no idea what to say. The quill twirled in her fingers. No words came.

She looked through the window at the busy street. Paul was restless. He wanted to be on his way. The waiting was difficult.

Words came at last. She looked back at the paper and dipped the quill in the ink then wiped the nib clear of drops, before writing simply.

Dear Father,

I hope you will forgive me for marrying Paul.

But I am happy. We are happy. I have told Mama how we are waiting to sail to America, but the winds will not calm enough to allow it.

I think we shall be here another couple of weeks, if you wish to write to me before we leave, I have given you my address.

Your daughter,

Eleanor

She looked at the words for a moment. In the past she would have written, your obedient daughter, but today she was his disobedient daughter and she could hardly write that.

She blotted the ink, then folded the letter, struck a flint and sealed it by heating the edge of a small block of red wax over the flame until a few drops fell on the folded page.

She used Paul’s seal, pressing the small pendant he had loaned to her into the wax.

Once she had addressed the letter, she placed it with the others, fetched her cloak, then went in search of her maid, to ask the woman to accompany her to the posting inn. She could ask the woman to take them, but Ellen wished to stretch her legs, and Paul would not be back until dinner.

* * *

Ellen stood on the edge of the harbour wall watching the waves crash against it. The sea was still too angry for the ships to sail. Foam and spray spewed over the top of the wall as the waves hit it, and tiny droplets of salty water blew into her face.

This was her favourite thing to do, to come down to the harbour and watch the sea. She liked to come during the hours Paul drilled his men because at this early hour, the harbour was less busy as long as the tide was out.

Another four weeks had passed and more since she had written to her family, but there had been no reply.

Each day she looked out across the sea thinking of her mother and her sisters, wondering how they were, and what they thought of her desertion.

Were they angry with her? Was that why they had not written?

Ships reached Cork from England every week but no letters came.

Ellen stood for a little while longer, just watching the tug of war the tide played with the waves, throwing them against the harbour wall, before pulling them back.

She felt like the sea. She was happy with Paul, and this life had become normal, yet when they left for America it would be abnormal again. The part of her which missed her mother and her sisters still tried to pull her back.

Ellen turned her back on the water and faced her maid. The woman stood a few steps back. ‘Jennifer, I am sorry to leave you standing in the cold. We will go home.’ It was odd to call an inn home. An inn was not a home – yet they had been here for weeks.

When would she have a home again; if they were to always travel where would ever be home?

Paul is my home – and so the inn was home – that was the answer. She did not need a place, just him.

To stave off boredom, she had begun sewing shirts and cravats for Paul. The task filled the hours she sat alone. At home she would have embroidered the hems of garments to fill her time, but embroidery had little purpose here.

Sewing was the occupation she decided to return to as she walked back through the cobbled streets, with Jennifer keeping pace beside her.

The streets were busier than they would normally be and everyone seemed to be huddled together in small groups and talking in hurried whispers. A group they passed splintered and began another conversation with others. Ellen could not hear.

‘What are they talking about, Jennifer?’

‘I do not know, ma’am.’

Something was happening, something ominous.

The whole atmosphere of the day changed; it had rained last night; the cobbles were damp and glistening; their appearance held a metallic glow, and the grey stormy sky reflected back from the puddles.

As Ellen walked the last hundred yards a sense of doom draped about her.

In the inn, instead of going to their room she sat in the parlour Paul had hired for their private use, with Jennifer, and they both picked up the sewing they had left there.

Her fingers trembled, making it difficult to thread the needle.

It was silly to feel anxious merely because people talked in the street.

Yet Paul did not return for luncheon, nor dinner, and as the day turned to evening, her anxiety grew.

She looked towards the door of the parlour each time she heard footsteps on the flagstones beyond the door, her heart setting up a sharp rhythm… Each time the door did not open.

‘Should I order your dinner, ma’am?’ Jennifer asked.

‘No, Jennifer, I will wait for Captain Harding.’

But half an hour later, Paul had still not come.

Ellen wondered if she should ask someone in the inn to send a message to the barracks. But surely he would have sent word if something were wrong.

She put her sewing down on the arm of the chair to go. Then, finally, she heard familiar strong heavy footsteps in the hall.

Paul!

She stood as the door opened and rushed to embrace him.

The scents of the sea and the outdoor air and cold seeped from the cloth of his greatcoat.

He did not embrace her in return; his whole body was possessed by the stiff poise of a military officer.

Something was wrong; she released him and stepped back a pace.

‘Have you heard, Ellen?’ He spoke sharply – his voice that of the military officer too.

‘Heard what?’

‘You have not.’

She shook her head.

‘Napoleon is free.’

‘Free…’ But the war with France was over… Napoleon was imprisoned…

‘He escaped the island of Elba at the end of February, and is gathering an army. We are no longer going to America. We have orders to sail to Ostend immediately.’

A lead weight fell in her stomach. She had seen the names of the dead in the newspaper her father read. Many men were killed fighting Napoleon’s forces, and many more crippled soldiers were begging in the streets in England now.

He took her hands. ‘You must pack tonight and make ready. We will sail back across the English Channel soon. I am sorry, I cannot stay to dine. I will eat with the officers. We need to plan. But I wanted to let you know what is happening, so you could prepare.’

Fear rushed through her – a sense she would lose him. But how silly. He’d survived years of the Peninsular War. She knew he was capable. Even so, she hugged him again, her arms reaching about his neck. ‘I love you.’

‘And I you, Ellen. I shall return as quickly as I can, but you must eat without me.’ His arms came about her for a moment, but he held her stiffly, then set her away, smiling quickly before he left the room.

Ellen faced Jennifer, a warm blush touching her cheeks.

Her intimacy had been inappropriate before a servant, yet it had still hurt that he had broken their embrace so quickly.

But he had done it because he was a soldier today and he needed to focus on his work, not his wife.

Now they would be sailing towards a war there would be many more moments like this.

In the weeks they had spent in Cork, waiting to sail the wild Atlantic, she had learned enough about a soldier’s life, though, to know what she could do; when she lay in bed at night with him, she would cling hard to the man she had met first.

The pain of brewing tears hurt Ellen’s throat and pressed at the back of her eyes, but she swallowed them away and breathed. ‘Would you order dinner for me, Jennifer?’

After dining alone, and eating very little, Ellen retired to their chamber, asking Jennifer to help her undress. Once the maid had gone, she slipped between the cold sheets and waited for Paul, and the moment when the soldier became just the man to her.