Read The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe for Free Online Page B

wasn’t retreating very far. He simply stood there, unmoving, staring at the wall.
    She stood as well. Stepped toward him. Touched his arm.
    His shirt was made of sturdy cambric, but under her fingers it pressed down and molded to the shape of his muscled arm, which in turn twitched under the press of her hand.
    â€œTell me,” she whispered.
    His lifted his right hand, closed it over hers, and looked down at her.
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œI didn’t do anything. That’s exactly the problem, Angel.” The sweetness of hearing him use the diminutive of her name struck her before she understood the import of his words. And then he continued, “there wasn’t anything I could do.”
    He could see that day as clearly as if it were the present one and he struggled to explain. After the long nights of marking out the ground for the batteries, trudging through rain and mud during the maddening storms, on the night of the attack, he hadn’t been in the first assaults on the town. No, it had been other engineers who had led the charge to the breaches by the inky darkness of night. Instead he’d been in the camp, and had seen the blazing lights, heard the distant clamor, the reports that hundreds of British soldiers had fallen.
    Thousands, he’d seen later, when, after the city’s fall, he’d approached the town.
    The trenches were full with those dead and those dying. Death, he was used to, although one never fully became inured to the hell of war, the blood, scent and volume of the violence. And though there had been many sieges, he had not seen devastation such as that at Badajoz.
    But it was inside the town that his life changed.
    The soldiers had been given leave to pillage, again, a common-enough occurrence in war, but this was different. These were inebriated soldiers fighting each other, murdering civilians, terrorizing and raping the women. After two hours of trying to protect the innocents who were screaming for help, he stood in the middle of the street, feeling as if the houses spun around him. The world spun, and with it the hideous expressions of men he had thought heroes.
    Was winning the town worth this?
    At least under the French, the townspeople had been spared. Who, then, were the villains?
    Sometime during his recitation, they’d moved to the fire, sat down again. Jasper lay by his legs, and he rested his hand on the dog’s back.
    â€œThese were my friends, men with whom I’d drunk wine and broken bread. Men I had respected and liked.”
    He glanced at her again, out of the corner of his eye. The horror had faded from her expression. She looked . . . thoughtful.
    â€œYou were right. You could have saved one person, perhaps, or two, but not hundreds.”
    â€œThousands,” he corrected. But he could see the numbers meant little to her. He saw them in the rows of dead that littered fields or the crushing melee of battle. “And we’re the ones who were fighting for what’s right. And yet . . .”
    â€œNo one protected the innocent.”
    He nodded.
    â€œThat was four years ago, nearly. Why didn’t you come home then?”
    â€œEngineers were in demand. I had a duty to England. But when peace came, at last . . . I took my chance.” He took a deep breath. “This castle . . . in Spain, on the continent . . . I destroyed things. Here I can build.”
    â€œOhh.”
    Her eyes were wide, luminous, as if she were looking deep into him. Understanding .
    A trick of the eye, or more likely, what she wanted him to think. He knew, after these last few days, that only rarely did Angelina reveal any thought or emotion she didn’t wish known.
    But he wanted her to understand. He wanted someone to. That, after the last three years, and all these months back home, it would be Angelina, seemed natural. Inevitable.
    She reached out, placed her hand over his. Her small, delicate