‘Madame Beattie, it’s already morning.’
‘So it is.’ Anna pulled away, suddenly afraid that Madame Durand would hang onto her. All that did was make the other woman look at her with a frown, the last thing she wanted. ‘I’m still tired.’
How could she sleep, though? She sat on the bedchamber’s balcony that overlooked the back lawn and the inlet beyond, certain that if she ventured down the steps, there would be only one torch lit now. Her mind took a leap. Was the torch Hector Durand’s doing?
She touched John’s pillow, hoping it was still warm, but no. She sat down, trying to summon serenity where she felt none. She sat there quietly, expecting no sudden flash of revelation or affirmation—none came. She was alone.
Not quite. She looked at the bureau to see Cathy Beattie’s folded note. She stared at it, then put it in her dresser drawer, wondering why he had left it, then suddenly, wildly hopeful.
‘Courage, Anna,’ she said softly. ‘It took a brave man to leave that with me.’
Three days passed; it seemed like an eternity. Inwardly calm, she rode with the children to St Matthews, and found herself distracted, thanks be to God, by Mr Brown.
He had his complaints. She dutifully listened to an earful about Port Mahon’s inhabitants: child pickpockets, noisy women in the market, even the muezzin who proclaimedAllah Is Greatfive times a day from the mosque.
Should she? Why not? Hal Brown had no idea of the burdensshecarried.
‘I think the people here are charming,’ she said. ‘No child has picked my pocket, the noisy women are no louder than the women who shout through Plymouth’s streets about Wellfleetoysters, and isn’t Allah the Muslims’ name for God? What’s the harm in shouting His name five times a day?’
He stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘Really, Madame Beattie!’
‘It’s Mrs Beattie, notmadame,’ she stated firmly.
Poor Hal Brown, an Englishman missing his country, or even just nearby Mallorca, that he had mentioned once.
‘You’ll get used to Menorca,’ she told him, feeling like a sudden citizen of the quirky island. She looked around for inspiration.
Stodgy St Matthews sat so English and out of place on the waterfront.
She pointed to a dinghy tied close to the steps from the street where they stood. ‘Perhaps you could take up fishing.’
He laughed and gave her a little bow, not a mocking one, but somehow both awkward and charming. ‘I believe you are right. The old Rector even thinks I should take Orders and replace him some day! D’ye think there is good English cod in these waters?’
She laughed along with him, in a better frame of mind, herself. Nice to know she wasn’t as out of place as Hal Brown seemed to be. ‘Good day, Mr Brown,’ she said. ‘Tell those rascals of mine to learn something today, eh?’
He gave her a playful bow. As Hector took her home, she watched that opposite shoreline, with its shops, homes and Menorcans going about their business as they probably had for centuries, war or not.
‘I like it here,’ she said softly to herself.
Nights were hard, she had to admit during that week. Funny how she had rubbed along so contentedly for twenty-nine years, only to change when the merest suspicion of love arose, not to mention two children. Here she was in a strange place, uneasy and in charge.
School continued as usual; everything did, as if mocking her suspicions. Her uneasiness continued after the children arrivedhome, deposited once more by Hector.Does that man never smile?she asked herself as she ushered Allan and Pru inside. She started to close the door.
‘Stop, Mrs Beattie! I need you!’
She opened the door wide as another wagon trundled towards the house. Was that Captain Tyler seated beside the driver?
‘Good God,’ she whispered. ‘Please, no.’
He leapt down before the wagon stopped and grabbed her arm. ‘Mrs Beattie, we have a crisis on our hands and I am about to dump it in your lap.’ To her horror, he left bloody fingermarks on her sleeve.
‘Is it Captain Beattie?’ she managed before he tugged her to the side of the driveway.
‘No, he is well. MyHartfordtangled withLa Guerretwo days ago,’ he told her, and she could tell he was condensing the story even as he spoke, whether to keep her from running away in fright or moving the matter along, she could not tell.
‘And?’ she prompted, her fear dissipating as she observed this exhausted man before her.
‘Your husband found us and sent me here. I have three wounded men, one near death. I have no surgeon aboard.’
