The hard echo of flesh hitting flesh permeated the corridor, followed by a whimper of pain, and suddenly, Peter could not stop himself anymore.He jumped from beneath the table, his fingers only a breath away from the doorknob, when small, but strong hands pulled him backward.Matthew’s lanky arms wrapped around him; his tall frame pressed against Peter’s back.
“Come, Pete,” he whispered, “Mother told us to hide.He’s in one of his furies, and it will only be worse if he finds us.”
“I can’t let him hit her again!”Peter whispered, his voice hoarse and furious, but devastated tears leaked down his cheeks.
“I know.”Matthew’s own voice cracked.“But you and I both know that he’ll treat her even worse if he finds us here.We need to go back to our room and lock the door.We’ll wait until Mother comes to us.”
Wetness splashed onto Peter’s hand, pulling him from the past.He looked down, expecting an offending spot of ink from his wild quill, only to realize that tears had dripped down off his face.It was not an easy thing to recall the pain Mother had endured.The pain they all had endured.He had blocked it out for so long.
Peter had only been a small boy of ten years.And that was when he had vowed that he would run away to the army.He would become strong and seasoned until he could fight off his father and any man who tried to hurt a precious woman in his life.But he had been too late to protect Mother.His father had died over a year ago, and the end of the war with France was nowhere in sight yet.
How distraught that younger version of himself would be if he now knew that any measure of decency, restraint, or ethics was similarly lost among the soldiers he had once called brothers.How long he would carry the painful memory of their grave mistakes, he did not know.But he would strive as much as possible to have a closer relationship with God, with Ana, in the hope that their influence would heal him in time.
Chapter 18
January 3, 1814, Abbeygate, Surrey Hills, England
“A letter for you, Mrs.Ashmore.”
Burnsey stood by the library door, the light bleeding into the room in sharp contrast to the rich wood that climbed the walls.Ana waved her hand, motioning for him to approach, as she slowly rose from the overstuffed chair she had claimed as her own.He held out a letter to her, holding her gaze for a moment.His eyes were wide and carefully observant, likely watching for the outburst of emotions that commonly occurred.Ana had always been free with her emotions, but she found that something about pregnancy made those emotions even stronger.She found herself crying, whether they were happy or sad tears, almost every day.And receiving news of her husband’s continuous delay in London did nothing to help such outbursts.
“Thank you, Burnsey.I am well.”
“Are you certain?”His brow creased, silver, poofy eyebrows raising upward in concern.
“Yes,gracias.”
Ana breathed deeply and pressed the letter against her chest for a moment.Her eyes scanned the room around her, overcrowded with books, maps, and papers, a bittersweet reminder of her husband’s absence.But perhaps he would be returning soon.She unfolded the letter, squinting at the blur of English words that lined the front, addressing the note to her.Writing to Peter in English about complex subjects was exceedingly easier than speaking, but reading in English was still a great matter of frustration for her.It required a laborious effort that often left her with a headache.Still, it was worth any pain or frustration to hear from her husband.
Now,speakingEnglish remained the greatest frustration of all.English, Ana had decided, was an exceedingly lazy language.Well, the pronunciation of English, that is.The grammatical rules of English were anything but lazy.Learning Basque and Portuguese had not been too difficult in her time traveling throughoutEspañawithPapá.Their pronunciation was still familiar and crisp, even if certain vowels were slightly altered.But English was a different issue entirely.It was entirely pockmarked with diphthongs and full of flat sounds, halfhearted consonants, and swallowed vowels.When Ana tried to imitate a true English accent, she was sure she sounded as if she were half asleep with a bad toothache.Hence why Ana deemed it to be most lazy indeed.The open, bright vowels of Spanish with trillingr’s, song-like inflection, and precise, cutting consonants were much friendlier to her mouth and tongue.
Still, she had spent hours on end carefully listening to the staff at Abbeygate in an effort to more accurately imitate their pronunciation, but it was proving to be a most difficult imitation.She wished for her English to be much improved when Peter arrived home again.Although why she suddenly had the desperate need to impress him, she could not say.
Ana returned again to the letter, anxious to know if Peter would be returning to her soon.Her heart pounded to see her name penned in his hand at the top of the page.Would she ever become accustomed to the thrill of reading words that she knew he had written privately, precisely for her?Even if they were written in English, it was lovely to know she was in his thoughts.In fact, it did all sorts of strange things to her stomach, causing it to twist and flip.
Dearest Ana,
I have found you a maid.Her name is Elena, and she is from Barcelona.She seems quite qualified, and I believe you will find her company to be delightful, seeing that she can speak Spanish and such.
I also need to confess that Mother has guessed at your condition.She is entirely too perceptive.But she is overjoyed for us and anxious to assist you in any way that you require.
And now for the less-than-satisfactory bit.I’m afraid I’m going to be delayed another day or two longer.I am so very sorry.My leaders seem to be completely determined to continue forward without acknowledging the significant errors made in San Sebastián.Even if these men in leadership, particularly Wellington, were not the ones to wreak havoc on the city, I feel they are making a grave error in brushing over the entire event as if it never happened.And then blaming it on the French, when there are innocent women who have testified otherwise!
I truly haven’t the faintest idea why they would take the time to deflect these legal allegations when there is an entire war to be fought.Why not make amends while moving forward?It would soothe the anger of those victims involved and strengthen Britain’s relationship with Spain.
But I will not worry you with my ramblings.I promise to continue to do my best to resolve this matter...if it is indeed possible.And if not, I pray that God will perform some miracle to heal the great hurt done to the people of San Sebastián, as well as you and me.
Know that I pray for you and our babe nightly.You are always in my thoughts.
Yours,
Peter
Ana pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to still the butterflies that flurried there as a result of seeing her husband’s handwriting.Since writing her letters, Peter had stopped referring to the babe as “your child” as he had while he was at home and had instead started asking after “our child.”Surely he didn’t know the power that such a small word had over her.It locked her throat with emotion and caused her heart to race.And so she returned his correspondence, writing “our child” as if it were the most natural thing in the world, not betraying the increasing hope that it gave her.
Still, despite the girlish excitement that she felt at receiving a letter from Peter, the contents of his letter were definitely a cause for concern.
Lady Ashmore had discerned Ana’s condition.But had she done the calculations and guessed that Peter was not, in fact, the father of the child?Thankfully, Peter’s lack of distress indicated that it would not matter regardless.Ana’s new mother-in-law wanted to help her, and that brought a much-needed sense of relief.
