Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo

by Diane Gaston

  She’d felt herself alone ever since Rhys left the village five years ago. Could watching him walk away from her again be any more painful?

  Rhys’s voice softened. ‘Hire a nurse, Helene. Hire two or more. You cannot do this all on your own.’

  * * *

  Rhys shook his head. Did Helene not realise she could catch this fever? What good would it do her to be ill when she and David needed to leave Brussels?

  His more conciliatory tone seemed to have little effect on her. She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I assure you I am entirely capable, even of hiring a nurse, if that is what I wish to do.’

  He spoke firmly again and extended his hand. ‘Give me the paper for the apothecary. I will see that it is prepared for you. And I will speak to the hall servant about sending a nurse. Do with that what you will.’

  Rhys knew how to command and was not hesitant to impose his will on her. Wilson’s condition distressed him. The old servant was dear to Rhys. When Rhys was growing up, his father and mother were often preoccupied with the needs of the parishioners and Rhys was left to his own devices. Wilson always seemed nearby when he or Helene needed help or a firm scolding. Even when Rhys was not with Helene, he would seek out Wilson and help him at his tasks. Rhys credited Wilson with teaching him how to take care of himself, his clothes and his gear. Rhys had a batman to assist him while the regiment was on the march, but he was spared the expense of a personal servant otherwise.

  Helene handed him the paper with the doctor’s instructions on it and turned away, returning to her seat next to Wilson’s cot. Rhys put the paper in his pocket.

  ‘No quarrelling, children,’ Wilson muttered. ‘I’ll tell your fathers.’

  Wilson’s delirium worried him. But how many times had Rhys heard Wilson speak those same words when they were young? Like the time they argued about who threw a stone the farthest. Or who could climb a tree the highest. Or who caught the bigger fish.

  Wilson never told their fathers anything they’d done.

  He walked back to Wilson. ‘We are not quarrelling, I assure you. Take a nap now. Rest.’

  Together he and Helene adjusted the pillows and blankets to make the ill man as comfortable as possible. She was close enough that he could inhale that familiar sweet scent of her, lavender and lemon, and was instantly transformed to his youth, to the sweet kisses they’d once shared.

  She looked directly into his eyes for a moment before averting her gaze. ‘Ask about a nurse,’ she said quietly. ‘I will at least meet her before deciding.’

  ‘Very well.’ He stepped back, fighting the impulse to lean in closer to her. ‘I will go now.’ He touched his pocket where he’d put the instructions to the apothecary. ‘I’ll see this is delivered to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Rhys.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  Rhys watched her for a moment as she fussed with Wilson’s blanket. Collecting himself, he walked out the door and made his way through the hallway and down the stairs to the hall. Best he stay away from her and simply arrange for the hotel servants to deliver the medicine and send a nurse.

  The hall servant was nowhere to be found, however. Rather than wait for him, Rhys decided to go to the apothecary himself. He returned to his room for his hat and gloves. On the street, he asked a passer-by where to find the shop. The man directed him to a street nearby.

  * * *

  Rhys opened the door and stepped inside, the fragrance of herbs and spices enveloping him. The walls of the shop were filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves of countless white jars with blue lettering. Words like mercure, centaurée and absinthe. A man wearing a white apron stood behind a long wooden counter. The apothecary, Rhys presumed.

  Rhys removed his hat. ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

  The apothecary nodded in return, raising his brows in question.

  Rhys pulled the doctor’s paper from his pocket and handed it to the apothecary. ‘S’il vous plait.’

  The man read the instructions and turned to his wall of ingredients, pulling several down, grinding some with his mortar and pestle, mixing those with a liquid, and decanting the whole into a round brown bottle sealed with a cork.

  ‘Two teaspoons, three times a day,’ the apothecary explained in French and handed Rhys the medicine.

  ‘Merci, monsieur,’ Rhys responded as he placed the proper coins in the man’s hand.

  * * *

  When he returned to the hotel, the same servant who’d procured the doctor for him was attending the hall.

  ‘How is Mr Wilson, Captain?’ the man asked. ‘Was the doctor of assistance?’

  ‘Yes. I thank you,’ Rhys replied. ‘Mr Wilson is to stay in his room until he recovers. He is, I fear, in need of nursing. Do you know any capable women we might hire to tend to him?’

  The servant frowned. ‘I will send for someone.’

  ‘Have the woman come to his room. Lady Helene or I will be with him.’ Why had he said he would be there? He’d done enough, had he not?

  Rhys started to walk away, but the servant called him back. ‘Captain! I forgot. A letter was delivered for Mr Wilson this morning. Would you like to bring it to him?’

  A letter? ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Happy to.’ But who would write to Wilson? Someone from Yarford House, no doubt, but why not send to Helene, or even David?

  The hall servant gave the letter to Rhys. Wilson’s name was written on it, but no indication of where it was from.

  Rhys looked up at the servant. ‘This came with the mail?’

  ‘No,’ the man said. ‘A boy delivered it.’

  The only person he could think of who might send Wilson a message was David, but the writing seemed distinctly feminine.

  He nodded thanks and made his way to Wilson’s room, forgetting that he’d intended to have one of the hotel servants deliver the medicine to Helene. When she opened the door to him, her eyes blinked in surprise.

  ‘I have the medicine.’ He handed her the bottle and gave her the apothecary’s instructions for its use.

  ‘I will give him some right away.’ Her skirts rustled as she returned to Wilson’s cot and coaxed him awake. Carefully she poured the liquid into a spoon and held it to his lips. ‘Medicine, Wilson. It will make you feel better.’

  He obligingly opened his mouth and she fed him the medicine.

  ‘Another spoonful,’ she said.

  As she was placing the cork back on the bottle, Rhys pulled the letter from his pocket. ‘Wilson received a letter.’

  Her brows rose. ‘A letter?’

  He handed it to her. ‘Does the hand look familiar?’

  She stared at the letter and shook her head.

  ‘Does he know someone in Brussels?’

  ‘No,’ she said, adding uncertainly, ‘at least no one I know of.’

  They exchanged glances, the kind of silent communication that had been so common between them at one time, both questioning what to do. Rhys inclined his head towards Wilson and Helene nodded in agreement.

  She roused Wilson again. ‘You have a letter, Wilson.’

  ‘From someone here in Brussels, I think,’ Rhys added.

  The old man sat up, gaining an alertness they’d not witnessed before. ‘Louise?’

  Rhys exchanged another glance with Helene.

  She showed Wilson the letter. ‘Open for me,’ he murmured. ‘Read.’

  She broke the wafer and read aloud in French.

  My dearest Samuel,

  Imagine my pleasure to learn you are in Brussels. Yes. You may call upon me. Do so as soon as you are able. I will be waiting in great anticipation.

  Yours,

  Louise

  Wilson rose from the bed, his unsteady legs barely able to support him. ‘Must go to her. Louise.’

  ‘No!’ Helene cried.

  Both Rhys an
d Helene rushed to his side and helped him back on to the cot. He struggled against them, but wore himself out in an instant. He lay back against the pillows again.

  ‘You must not get out of bed,’ Helene scolded. ‘You are very ill.’

  ‘Must see Louise,’ Wilson said weakly. ‘Must see her.’

  ‘Not today.’ Helene’s voice was gentle. ‘Today you rest.’

  He fell asleep or perhaps fell into a stupor.

  Rhys gestured for Helene to step away from the bed. ‘Do you know this Louise?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have never heard him speak of knowing anyone in Brussels. Or anyone anywhere else besides at Yarford.’ She glanced back at the old man’s fitful rest. ‘She seems important to him.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Rhys knew he would be unable to ignore this latest drama. He might as well be caught in a web, the threads holding him becoming thicker as he tried to free himself.

  He could simply walk away. Helene. Wilson. David. None of them were any of his concern. His only concern was his regiment and their readiness for battle. The time waiting weighed heavily on him. On all his men. To fill time, Rhys’s soldiers got embroiled in all sorts of mischief, but even sorting them out was not enough to keep him occupied. Rhys had time to tend to Wilson.

  He simply should not let old memories distract him, memories of how it once was with Helene.

  He returned to the hotel’s hall and the servant attending it. ‘I have a question, sir,’ he asked the man. ‘I want to assist Mr Wilson in every way I can—’

  The servant cut him off. ‘I have sent for a nurse, Captain. I assure you.’

  ‘I am obliged. But it is not about the nurse. The letter that arrived for Mr Wilson. Do you know who sent it?’

  The servant frowned. ‘I was not told who sent it.’

  Rhys persisted. ‘Do you know the boy who delivered it?’

  ‘I am sorry, Captain. I do not.’ He bowed and stepped away.

  Damnation! Rhys should simply shrug his shoulders and let it go, but the mystery nagged at him. Who was this Louise? Why was she so important that Wilson would attempt to rise from his sickbed for her?

  Chapter Four

  That evening Rhys and his friend Grant returned to the same tavern where he’d encountered Helene. Had it merely been the night before? The place was now haunted by the memory of the first vision of her after so many years, like a dream materialising in the dim light. Also like a cannonball to the chest. What sense had he to return here?

  But why not? The beer and the food were excellent, and he rather had a craving for the tavern’s cooked mussels and frites.

  He’d not returned to Wilson’s room after delivering the medicine, not wanting to encounter Helene again. When Rhys and Grant were leaving the hotel to come here, the hall servant informed Rhys that a competent nurse had been sent to the elderly man’s room. Rhys would check on this nurse later. He’d stop by Wilson’s room before retiring. Surely Helene would not be there then.

  He and Grant settled at a table near the one they’d shared the night before. Grant had spent most of his day with officers from other regiments, all comparing rumours of how long they would have to wait for marching orders.

  Grant took a swig of his beer. ‘There is considerable gathering of French troops on the border and Wellington believes the French will attack soon. It seems clear that Brussels will be Napoleon’s aim, but there are three possible routes. Tournai seems most likely, but Boney could well come through Mons or even Charleroi.’

  It was as Rhys feared. ‘The battle could be days away, no matter his choice of route.’

  ‘That seems the right of it,’ Grant responded.

  This was not new information, but mere confirmation of what intelligence had supposed for some time as Wellington’s spies reported on the troop movement inside France. Rhys’s first thought, though, was of Helene. It was madness she had travelled here at this dangerous time and even more madness that David considered the whole thing one great lark. They needed to leave Brussels right away.

  At that moment Rhys looked up to find David approaching their table. Rhys was not happy to see him. David was accompanied by another youth remarkable only because of an eyepatch on one eye.

  ‘Rhys! How grand to find you here!’ David cried. ‘May we join you?’

  Rhys glanced at Grant, who, returning Rhys an inquisitive look, inclined his head in agreement.

  David happily pulled up a chair and signalled the tavern maid to bring them some beer. His friend sat next to him. ‘May I present my friend, William Lennox? William, this is Rhys. Captain Landon, I mean. I’ve known him my whole life! He’s the vicar’s son and a great childhood friend of my sister’s.’

  Grant seemed to be raptly interested in this information.

  Rhys introduced him. ‘This is Captain Grantwell.’

  ‘Captain.’ The young man nodded politely. ‘I am David Banes.’

  Curious. David’s father was dead. David would be Lord Yarford now. Why had he introduced himself with his given name? On the other hand, did Rhys care what the boy called himself?

  Rhys turned towards David’s companion as he lifted his tankard of beer to his lips. ‘Do you have a notion to witness the coming battle as well, Lennox?’

  The young man frowned. ‘I hope to recover in time. I am—or rather was—attached to General Maitland’s staff. Before this.’ He pointed to his bandaged eye. ‘A riding accident,’ he explained. Rhys doubted he or Grant would have had any inclination to ask.

  David puffed up his chest proudly. ‘William is the Duke of Richmond’s son and His Grace is excellent friends with Wellington, so I have no doubt William will be part of the action.’

  Wellington, the Field Marshal of the Allied Forces, was also a duke. This pretentious reference to two dukes in one sentence reminded Rhys of Helene and David’s father. Now there was a man who revered titles. No surprise David was cut from the same cloth.

  Rhys took a sip of his beer. ‘David, I do not think it at all wise that you returned to this tavern, not after last night.’

  The youth looked mystified. ‘Why not? The food is good here.’

  ‘You nearly provoked a townsman to fisticuffs.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ David waved a dismissive hand. ‘I do not credit that.’

  Rhys glanced around the room. The man from the previous night did not appear to be present. Perhaps he would not have to rescue David again from being beaten to a pulp.

  He changed the subject. ‘How is Wilson?’

  ‘Wilson?’ David looked puzzled, but then his expression cleared. ‘Oh, yes. Wilson. He is ill, Helene said.’

  ‘I know he is ill.’ Rhys leaned forward. ‘Did you not check on him, to see how he fared?’

  ‘Me? What could I do?’ David replied. ‘I’ve been out all day.’

  Rhys felt his anger rise. ‘Out all day and not once checking on your servant?’

  The boy puffed up his chest. ‘Helene is the one who brought him here. Let her check on him.’

  Rhys turned away in disgust. David should be offering both Wilson and his sister his assistance. If David stepped up to his responsibility, Rhys could walk away with a clear conscience.

  The maid came and took their food orders and soon the food arrived. Grant and young Lennox struck up a conversation about possible battle strategies, with David inserting his unschooled opinion. Rhys tried to follow the conversation, but his traitorous thoughts kept returning to Helene, alone and worried about Wilson.

  * * *

  When they finished, Lennox rose. ‘I must return home. This has been capital, Captains!’ He picked up his hat. ‘No need to come with me, David. I will see you tomorrow morning for our ride.’

  ‘We are riding into the countryside tomorrow,’ David explained happily.

  Lennox started to walk away but turned back. ‘Oh,
my mother is planning to give a ball on Thursday. I will see that you all receive invitations.’ He bowed.

  A ball only three days away? A ball was the last thing that could interest Rhys with a French attack so imminent.

  ‘Shall we order another round?’ David asked after his friend left.

  Rhys stood this time. ‘I think not. Time for you to return to the hotel, David. Report to your sister.’

  David laughed. ‘Oh, I forgot. I was supposed to meet her for dinner. Oh, well, she won’t mind. Let’s have another round. The night is just beginning!’

  Rhys leaned into the young man’s face. ‘Last night you were so cup-shot you were nearly beaten to a pulp and I needed to carry you to the hotel. Your night is over.’

  David’s lower lip jutted out, but he did as Rhys commanded.

  Grant lifted his still full tankard. ‘I’ll stay.’

  * * *

  Rhys spoke few words to David as they walked back to the hotel, although the boy kept up a steady stream of cheerful, inane conversation. The boy needed a proper dressing down in Rhys’s opinion, but David was not his concern.

  When they walked through the hotel doors into the hall, though, Rhys could keep quiet no longer. ‘Go straight to your sister’s room and let her know you are still alive. After what you’ve put her through, she probably fears the worst.’

  David scowled. ‘What room is she in? I did not attend when she told me.’

  Rhys gave him the room number. His room was, of course, on the same floor, but he’d had enough of David’s company for one night. He took a different stairway to Wilson’s room instead.

  He knocked on the door, expecting the nurse to answer.

  The door opened and Helene appeared instead.

  Rhys took an involuntary step back. ‘I thought the nurse would be here.’

  Helene stepped aside. ‘She is here.’

  Rhys entered the room and saw a simply dressed plump woman at least two decades older than Helene.