Gallant Waif Anne Gracie (easy to read books for adults list txt) 📖

“Child. How dreadful for you!” Lady Cahill looked appalled.

Kate shook her head. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t at all. In fact those three years, while the boys and my father were alive, were the best years of my life.”

Lady Cahill made a shocked sound of disbelief and Kate smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid it’s true. I. . .I’ve always been a bit of a hoyden, you understand, and I found the life suited me—much better than at the vicarage. I was never lonely and. . .and my father valued me as he never had before.” She looked down at her hands. “You see, when my mother died, Papa blamed me—she died giving birth to me.”

“But, child, that was not your—”

“Oh, I know, but Papa could never see that… You said I had my mother’s eyes… Papa was a good man, but when he looked at me all he could see was my dead mother. . .so he never looked at me. Never.’ Kate choked on the word.

“Oh, my dear…”

“But somehow, on the Peninsula, things changed. Perhaps, with death and danger all around us, everything else faded into insignificance. I don’t know… And because, in such a difficult situation, comfort comes to mean a great deal…” Kate looked at Lady Cahill. “I became quite a good housekeeper, you see. And hot food at almost any hour, a warm, dry place to sleep and clean clothing mean a lot to men at war…”

She sighed. “They truly needed me and I was happier than I have ever been in my life. . .until poor Ben was killed at Ciudad Rodrigo…” She fell silent for a moment, then continued, “And then everything fell apart at Salamanca.”

Lady Cahill frowned. Jack had been wounded at Salamanca.

As she spoke, Kate’s hands unknowingly began to pleat the stuff of her skirt in tiny, deliberate folds. “Last July, our army was retreating from the Douro River, back towards Salamanca—you may have read of it; the newspapers hate it when we retreat. The French were close behind us. At times they were even parallel with us and so close that you could see them through the swirling clouds of dust.” She gulped.

“Jemmy was hit in the chest… We got him on to our cart. . .but with all the dust and confusion we fell a long way behind.”

She turned the wad of pleated skirt over and methodically began to unpleat it. Her voice was flat, bleak. “Then Papa was hit. In the stomach. I. . .I managed to get him and Jemmy away to a deserted building. It was half destroyed, but at least it was shelter… Jemmy died the first night. . .Papa lasted two more days… I had a little laudanum and at least I. . .I was able to ease his passing…”

Lady Cahill leaned forward. “You poor child—”

“I didn’t remember anything after that. . .until more than a month later.” She straightened her skirt with shaking hands, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I awoke one morning and found myself in a French camp. An officer, Henri Du Croix, was interrogating several recently captured prisoners—English prisoners. I had no idea how I got there.”

She shivered and continued, “It was the most terrifying feeling… Later, I learned that the officer, Henri, had found me wandering after Salamanca. I had been wounded—on the head.” Her hand crept unconsciously to the scar almost hidden by her hairline. “Apparently I was unable to remember my name or anything, although he knew, of course, that I was English. I became his prisoner. . .and his mistress.”

Kate flushed at the small sound from Lady Cahill. She could not look at the old lady. Her hands began their intricate pleating again.

“I discovered that for the last month I had lived with him, slept with him in his tent…” Kate swallowed in embarrassment, and forced the words out “. . .living as man and wife.” She flushed a darker rose colour and added, “I know it was true—I remember it. You must not think he was a totally wicked man—in his own way, I think he was fond of me…but I swear to you I did not realise what had happened until a month after Salamanca…when it was too late.”

She took a deep shaky breath and continued, determined to get it all out in the open. “In Lisbon afterwards they called me the Frenchman’s whore. . .and a traitress.”

Lady Cahill made a shocked sound.

“Traitress, because I’d tended the wounds of French soldiers. I have some small skill with injuries, you see. And though they were the enemy I see no wrong in what I did. They were only men, like our men—tired, hungry, in pain, and longing to be with their loved ones, not fighting this dreadful war. That part, I do not regret…”

She shrugged, her eyes downcast. “So, now you know.”

The material of her skirt was crushed and twisted. Her voice rose again in distress. “But I did not consent to be Henri’s mistress—he told me he was my husband and I believed him. I found a ring on my finger, though I did not know how it got there. I could not even remember my own name at the time, and so I believed him! He was very convincing. He said I was his English wife. I never knowingly—”

“Hush now, child! Do not distress yourself. I don’t doubt your word,” interrupted Lady Cahill

Huge, swimming grey-green eyes regarded her doubtfully.

“Oh, tush, child,” the old lady said gruffly, patting Kate’s knee. “As if I did not know you are the soul of honour.”

Kate inhaled, a long, tremulous breath. Tears trembled on her lashes. “Then you are very singular, ma’am, for few others believed me. They thought me a wanton, a liar, a traitress.”

“Lud, child. Anyone with a grain of sense could see you are none of those. As far as I am concerned, you did nothing wrong. And I respect you for tending their wounded. Tell me, how did you return to English territory?”

“Well, as