“We’ll be settling in at Abbeygate and look forward to enjoying the peaceful environment of Surrey Hills,” Peter said, squeezing Ana’s hand briefly under the table.
“Oh, the ride to Abbeygate only lasts a few hours, does it not, Mother?”Matthew said.
Afewhours?Ana would not endure it.Her stable, wooden chair seemed to transform into the bumping, jolting bench of a carriage, and her stomach could no longer contain its contents.She burst from the table, spinning to face the door, and ran as quickly as her feet would carry her.Por favor!She begged her stomach to wait.Almost there...
She heard Peter’s voice growing louder as he trailed after her.“She still feels a bit uneasy from our long journey.Surely, you understand.Please continue without us.”
Chapter 2
August 31, 1813, San Sebastián, Basque Country, Spain
A few months prior...
The first time Peter had met Ana María Bailon, he’d beentruly astonished by her boldness.She had a commanding presence, just like her father, and did not seem out of place in the slightest as she conversed with and translated for other military leaders.Peter’s officer rank, and undoubtedly the rank of his family, had earned him a seat in such meetings, where he made her acquaintance.She was not from Basque Country but was from Southern Spain, so he attempted to communicate with her with the measly Spanish he knew, the few times he had gathered his courage enough to do so.
Her father was aware of all the ongoings of San Sebastián, no matter the camp.The city was a small one, but it was currently overrun with armies from four different countries, including the native Spanish.It was a critical location for French war supply and strategy, being on the border of the sea, and needed to be reclaimed from the French, requiring the aid of the British and the Portuguese.Ana María’s father, a Spanish captain, had played an essential role outside the city, doing everything possible to keep peace between the Allied forces at play during the siege.
Ana, it seemed, was just as invested in the experience.Even though Major Bailon was a dominating figure, he clearly doted on his daughter.But instead of spoiling her with material goods and causing her to become soft and selfish, like some young ladies in London, he had sharpened her and made her into a valuable tool.Her mother’s unexplained and seemingly permanent absence likely intensified Ana’s education as well.She was incredibly well-learned and was not afraid to speak her mind, even among numerous military leaders who were visibly shocked to see a woman present in their meetings.Although her official role was a translator for Basque, Spanish, and Portuguese relations, she had often contributed to the communicative stratagem that was so critical in a siege that had dragged on for months on end.
Most of all, she was a captivating communicator, but not in the way that many ladies of English society would deem themselves to be captivating.Instead of making herself seem simple or subservient in mock humility or silly flirtations, she was assertive and audacious.Her command over Portuguese and Basque, even with the struggle that translations brought, silenced even the haughtiest of men in those upper circles.Her father had positioned her as a translator, as none of the British knew Basque, but it was clear that her role was more of an ambassador.She managed to keep the peace amid the heated conversations that occurred between Spanish, Portuguese, and British armies while they were waiting out the French.
Still, amid her responsibilities, it was evident that she was a lady, and a very beautiful one at that.Lucious, black curls streamed down her back, escaping her carved Spanish hair comb and coiling tightly in the humidity of the coast.A scarlet fabric rose was pinned just behind her ear, brightening the structured design and muted color of her military-inspired gown.Shorter tendrils bounced about her forehead, framing her heart-shaped face, rose-colored cheeks, and full lips that were continuously curved upward.But her eyes were the most captivating of all.Framed by thick eyelashes, her irises were a dramatic shade of brown, so dark they were almost black.When Peter caught Ana’s gaze, he found it more than difficult to escape their depths.They almost made him forget they were in the middle of a war.
As the siege continued, Peter found himself increasingly curious about Ana, this rose among the thorns in the intensity of the siege.He’d ascertained that she was twenty-one, so he was three years her senior.But the wisdom she exuded made her seem far older.He’d been so flustered when he first spoke to her that he destroyed even the most basic of Spanish phrases.When he should have said “Cómo te llamas?” to ask what her name was, he instead said “Cómo te amo,” which, embarrassingly enough, meant “How I love you.”She had laughed heartily, and he had turned positively crimson and choked with embarrassment.The discomfort evident in his ramrod-straight posture did little to stave off her laughter.Then, much to his horror, she had approached him, greeted him with the customary Spanishbesos, or kisses, on each cheek, and responded by saying, “No te preocupes, Capitán,te amo también.”Don’t worry, Capitán, I love you too.Her response, reciprocating his accidental confession of love, had embarrassed him more than anything.His effort to impress her with his Spanish was a failure, one that his comrades teased him mercilessly for.Every time she had seen him in the weeks that followed, she had called out with great gusto, “Hola, Capitán!Cómo te amo!”His regiment had even started to refer to her as hisprometida,or betrothed.
All the tension of the previous months had come to a point on the 31st of August.What had started as a moment of relief and jubilation—as they received news of France’s surrender after eight days of bombardment and months of siege warfare—had turned into a living nightmare.When the message that the French were giving up the city had rolled through camp, Peter had expected his fellow soldiers to celebrate in their usual manner, with a bit of boisterous singing and a little too much to drink, activities he was not remotely interested in, so he had spent the evening tending to his injured men in the medical tents.But instead of celebrating in their typical way, British soldiers stormed down the narrow peninsula and went on a reckless rampage in San Sebastián, the city they had been fighting so hard to recover from France.It seemed they decided it was their right to pillage and terrorize the town.
Much to Peter’s horror, the men ran amok in their wine cellars and left destruction and tragedy in their wake after robbing the people of their valuables.Precious gold crucifixes splashed with blood or wine dangled from their hands.After becoming a deadly mob of drunken fools, they began destroying all they could touch in riotous fashion.Yes, they fought off the fleeing French, but they didn’t stop at that.They turned on their leaders, fighting against their own countrymen, and then they began to set fire to the homes of San Sebastián with large, dripping candles stolen from the town’s own convent.Smoke cast a haze on the sky, shimmering orange and red as flames conquered house after house.By the end of the first night, the dead British, Portuguese, and French soldiers lay in piles, stripped naked and robbed by their own.
But it had worsened still.The Basque women and children who had been trapped in the city were dragged from their shelters and injured or worse.Soldiers forced themselves upon countless women in a violent and cruel manner.Horror and disgust reigned in Peter’s heart as he saw what was happening, driving bile to his throat and tears to his eyes.Peter would never be able to shake the ringing screams of the women and children of San Sebastián from his ears.It had driven him to fight his own, an act he never imagined he would be required to do.But how could he have acted otherwise?He had tried to defend a group of helpless women, throwing himself at his countrymen, fighting more viciously than he had the French.A single defender in a sea of attackers.Not seeking to kill but to defend.Only once the women had escaped had he stopped his pleading, cursing, and slashing.He’d raced back to camp, hoping to find other leaders to help him stop the drunken rampage.Instead, he found their abandoned posts or their dead bodies, killed by their allies with their own swords.
And then he saw Ana María.
She had been stumbling about the outside of the city’s crumbling wall, her dress ripped, face bruised, and arms smeared with blood.Bewilderment and fury laced the stream of Spanish that flowed from her.Pain was evident in her every move as her hands clutched her waist and her face contorted at each step.Yet somehow she had recognized him, clinging to his arms for support.The great sobs that shattered through her body only grew in a crescendo to desperate wails when he told her that her father had not survived the drunken attack on the resisting leaders at camp.She had collapsed into his arms.He had witnessed much bloodshed during his time as a soldier, but the stain of her blood on his uniform, the feel of it on his hands, had scarred him irreparably.Roaring, desperate anger exploded inside him like a great keg of gunpowder exposed to a careless spark.But Ana was at his side, and quickly losing consciousness, which was the only thing keeping him from storming back into San Sebastián to cut down his own.
They had escaped the city together, hesitating only momentarily to glance at the smoldering hill rising out of the ocean, then stumbled off into the shroud of the surrounding forest.Surely the devout faith of Ana and the earnest prayers of Peter’s mother were the reason they survived that day.
The events of a few hours had altered Ana forever.Even though she was still as intrepid and forthright as ever, she had been robbed of something precious.He could see it in her eyes.Where once there was a fire of confidence and ambition, there was now a smolder of grief and pain.
Peter could not have left her in San Sebastián.He owed that much to her father, who, for all the effort he had given to the Allied forces, had not been able to prevent this disaster.And he had given his life, and his daughter’s future, as payment.It was not fair.And it seemed that life for Ana María would never be fair again.
Chapter 3
September 1, 1813, San Sebastián, Basque Country, Spain
Smoke seeped through the trees, rising from the valley below, and stung Peter’s eyes.Entangled branches overhead filtered out some of the smoke and shielded them from the ashfall that followed.Still, the suffering of the past day was heavy, sticking to them like an ever-persistent shadow.
Peter and Ana María had walked far into the forest until she had practically collapsed.He had his pack and a few materials to tie up a makeshift tent for her under a weeping fig tree, camouflaging the entrance with fallen branches.He slept across the campfire on his blankets.The space between them, he hoped, would provide a sense of propriety and security for her.Luckily, as an officer, he had known where to find supplies.He even shot down a few birds and cooked them to give them strength to continue.The aching in Peter’s head and ringing in his ears were slowly subsiding, but he doubted that the guilt that split his heart ever would.How could he have allowed such a thing to happen to her?
Every time Peter looked at Ana and saw the scrape marring her cheek and the lesion encircling her throat, he nearly lost himself to outrage.Her dress was pockmarked with tears and burns, and her wrists were a painting of purple bruises and red swelling.He wished he had an ointment or salve to provide her some sort of relief.The sight of her, the reminder of the pain she endured, made his hands shake and his stomach roil.Then his mind would spiral, questioning what would have happened if he had not found her when he did.In those soul-blackening moments, he wanted to storm through the trees and strike down as many of the soldiers as he could reach.But that would not help her.What she needed now was a protector.
She would likely say that she could have fared just as well on her own, and he knew not to doubt her resilience.But she was clearly still recovering from her attack, her movements slow and staggered, pain creasing her forehead continually.She might have found shelter, but she would likely be prey to attackers.Peter never could have left her there in San Sebastián, not after the carnage he had seen from his countrymen, not after the trust he had shared with her father.He felt a sense of responsibility for her.And he thanked God continuously that she had trusted him enough to leave with him after the unspeakable pain one of his own countrymen had caused her.
Still, he found it difficult to reach her.For once, the vibrant, passionate Ana María was silent, distant, and dazed.Even when he asked how she was faring in his cumbersome, too-flat Spanish—“Estás bien?”—she remained unresponsive.Only when he touched her could he bring her mind back to their present circumstances.Upon touching her shoulder, she would jerk away like a lost, young child.So he learned to communicate with her by squeezing her hand.The contact dragged her out of the horrors in her mind and grounded her back into the present, at least long enough for her to communicate a hint of her feelings.Although perhaps it was a blessing that they were not able to talk extensively of their feelings at present.The silence between them could comfort her, help her feel safe.
He was at a loss as to how to care for her injuries when they were of such a private and delicate nature.Particularly when this sort of pain was just as much emotional as it was physical.When he had suffered more invasive injuries in the war, he knew that lots of rest would be most helpful—something that was not easy to achieve in the woods.He needed to move her somewhere safer.But first, he needed to check back in with his regiment.Allowing the army to think that either he or Ana had abandoned their posts and deserted would only lead to more challenges.
Peter had known a few deserters.Many of them had been made examples of, their good names and reputations scathed forever after facing legal trials.The rest were outcasts.They were shadows, largely unnoticed by society.But that was how they had chosen to live after being publicly shamed and cast out from the country that welcomed their brothers home as heroes.The army was not for everyone.Even those who escaped unscathed without significant physical injury often had nightmares that haunted them for the rest of their days.Some people could not survive, even after deserting the army, and found their way into an unmarked grave, just like many before them.Peter would not let Ana María become one of those mounds of earth, forever uncared for, forever forgotten.
