Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo

by Diane Gaston

  ‘Has he spoken to you at all?’ Helene asked.

  Mrs Jacobs nodded. ‘Nothing that had meaning. He speaks the name Louise a great deal.’

  Yes. Who was Louise? ‘We know nothing of Louise. Did he say anything that would tell us more about her?

  ‘Only the name.’ The nurse tilted her head apologetically.

  Helene glanced over at Wilson, now murmuring in his sleep.

  She turned back to the nurse. ‘May I do something for you, Mrs Jacobs? I am at liberty to perform some errand or to sit with him if need be.’

  Mrs Jacobs laughed. ‘Mon Dieu! It is I who am hired to help you, not you to help me.’

  ‘But you will need some relief, surely.’ Helene remembered how much she needed the respite the servants offered her after she’d spent hours with her ill mother or father.

  Mrs Jacobs looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you would not mind sitting with him for an hour or two? I would like to go home. Check on—check on something. And to gather some necessities for our patient.’

  ‘Of course,’ Helene readily agreed. ‘Do you need any money? I must pay for whatever Wilson needs.’ She took a purse from her pocket and handed the woman some coins.

  Mrs Jacobs looked at the coins in her palm and smiled. ‘That will do nicely, mademoiselle. Merci.’

  Helene thought she might have breakfast with David again, but she would leave him a note instead. He’d probably like that better.

  ‘Would you bring a note to the hall servant for me?’ she asked the nurse.

  ‘Of course, mademoiselle.’ Mrs Jacobs wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

  Helene crossed to the table where Wilson had placed pen and paper—to write to the mysterious Louise, no doubt. She penned a quick note, folded the paper and wrote David’s name on it. She handed it to Mrs Jacobs.

  The older woman grinned. ‘Is this for your handsome captain?’

  Helene felt her face flush. ‘No. No. For my brother. He is also a guest here.’

  Mrs Jacobs shook her head in mock disappointment. ‘A brother? Not nearly as nice as a note to the captain.’ She gestured to a table near the small fireplace where sat a teapot and a plate covered by a cloche. ‘The footman next door brought me some food a moment ago. Bread and cheese and tea, of course. I’ve not touched any of it, so you must have my share.’

  Helene was hungry, she realised.

  ‘I will return before two hours have passed,’ Mrs Jacobs promised as she walked out the door.

  Helene poured herself a cup of tea and placed both it and the plate of bread and cheese on the table near Wilson’s bed. She tore off a piece of bread and nibbled on it, the silence broken only by her chewing and Wilson’s raspy breathing.

  Her handsome captain. He’d once been her handsome Rhys. Helene felt a wave of loss.

  * * *

  She must have dozed a little after eating, because a knock on the door roused her. Was it already time for Mrs Jacobs to return? She rose and opened the door.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  Rhys.

  ‘Rhys! It is you.’ She clamped her mouth shut, vexed at herself for stating what was so obvious.

  He strode right past her, eyes flaring. ‘Where is the nurse? Did she desert her post?’

  ‘No. No.’ Helene closed the door behind him. ‘She was here the night. I offered to stay with Wilson while she went for some necessities.’

  He straightened. ‘I see.’ He glanced towards the bed. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Resting more quietly than yesterday, I believe, although Mrs Jacobs said he was still delirious some of the time.’ Her heart was still pounding. She’d not expected to see him.

  A groan came from the old servant’s bed. ‘Lady Helene? Is that you?’

  She rushed over to the bedside. Rhys followed her. ‘Yes, Wilson. It is Helene. And Rhys.’

  ‘Rhys?’ The older man tried to sit up, but it was too much effort. ‘Ah, yes. I remember. Rhys was here. We are in Brussels.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helene said. ‘But you have been very ill with fever. Do not exert yourself. You need to rest.’

  ‘No.’ Wilson tried to rise again. ‘I have somewhere I must go. I must.’

  Rhys stepped forward. ‘You need to stay in bed, Wilson. You are too ill to go anywhere.’ His voice was firm but...gentle.

  Like the old Rhys.

  Wilson lay back against the pillows again, but he looked quite distraught.

  ‘You should drink something, Wilson,’ Helene said. ‘Some tea. I’ll get it for you.’

  Rhys had already walked over to the teapot and poured Wilson a cup. She took the cup from Rhys’s hand and spoke quietly. ‘Do you think his agitation is about the letter?’

  Wilson heard her. ‘A letter?’

  ‘Do you remember, Wilson?’ Rhys asked him. ‘The letter from Louise.’

  Wilson extended his arm. ‘Let me see!’

  She put down the teacup and reached into her pocket for the letter. She handed it to Wilson.

  He held it in a trembling hand and put it close to his face, then dropped it on to the bed. ‘My eyes will not focus.’

  Helene picked up the single sheet of paper. ‘Louise wishes you to call upon her.’

  ‘Louise.’ Tears filled the old man’s eyes. ‘Louise.’

  Helene glanced at Rhys again, sharing her worry with him. In his delirium Wilson had forgotten the letter.

  Rhys put a gentle hand on Wilson’s shoulder. ‘Do not upset yourself. You need to get well.’

  ‘I need to see her!’ Wilson cried.

  ‘Perhaps we can get a message to her.’ Rhys’s voice was calm and reasonable. ‘Can you give us her direction?’

  ‘Rue de l’Evêque. Near the theatre,’ Wilson managed. ‘Louise Desmet.’

  ‘We will get a message to her,’ Helene assured him. ‘We will tell her you are ill and cannot call upon her now.’

  Wilson nodded, but tears rolled down his cheeks. His tears distressed her. Wilson had often been the one to dry her tears.

  She brought him the cup of tea. ‘Come. Drink some tea.’ It was tepid by now.

  Rhys helped him sit up in bed. Helene put the cup to Wilson’s lips. He drank the whole.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ She held up the plate of bread and cheese.

  Wilson grimaced and shook his head vehemently.

  She turned to Rhys. ‘He needs some broth or porridge. And something more to drink. He must have some nourishment.’

  Rhys nodded in agreement. ‘I will bring something from the dining room. I can do so right away.’

  Helene was glad for his help. At least when it concerned Wilson, Rhys was the Rhys with whom she’d fallen in love.

  ‘Message!’ Wilson cried. ‘Message to Louise.’

  Helene turned back to her old servant. ‘We will send your message, Wilson. I promise you. Now rest, will you?’ She felt his forehead. He was still very hot to the touch.

  Rhys stepped away. ‘I’ll bring some food.’

  She saw the concern in his eyes, a concern that matched her own. They were both afraid Wilson would not recover.

  * * *

  Rhys hurried down to the dining room. If only he’d had more sleep, his emotions might not be firing in all directions like Congreve rockets, but he’d risen very early that morning to visit his company and he’d been out quite late the night before.

  Rhys hadn’t expected to see Helene when he knocked on Wilson’s door. When she opened it he’d been momentarily struck dumb. She wore a plain striped blue dress and had taken little care with her hair, but her loveliness cut into him like the slash of a sabre. Then to see the nurse was not there—he’d immediately thought the woman had deserted and his agitation had flared. He was accustomed to keeping a cooler head.

  He’d even lost his temper at David. Th
e night before it had taken Rhys some time to find the hare-brained boy and, when he did, David was already as drunk as a wheelbarrow and about to engage in fisticuffs with some soldiers from the Dutch light cavalry. Rhys had rung a peal over David’s head for that folly, but he doubted David would even remember it this morning.

  Rhys was done, though. This would be the last time he’d put himself in the path of Helene and David Bane—as soon as he made certain Wilson had what he needed.

  The dining room servant promised to have a tray delivered to Wilson’s room within the half-hour. As Rhys walked back to the hall, Mrs Jacobs, hands full of a large bundle and a basket dangling from one arm, had just reached the stairway.

  He caught up to her. ‘Mrs Jacobs, may I assist you?’

  She smiled at him and handed him the bundle. ‘Ah, Captain. You are a most welcome sight.’ They walked up the stairs together. ‘I brought some clean nightclothes for Mr Wilson. And some food and some things for me.’ She lifted the basket, then inclined her head towards the bundle he carried. ‘The hotel gave me these clean linens. I do not know how I would have managed had you not come along. You do not mind carrying these to Mr Wilson’s room, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Even though Rhys had not intended to return to the room.

  ‘You truly will not mind when you see who is there with him.’ She grinned at him. ‘Your lovely mademoiselle!’

  He was about to tell her Helene was not his, but she interrupted him, her expression sobering.

  ‘She did not mind me leaving her with Mr Wilson. I had her permission. I had to go to my home. I—I needed to check on...’ Her voice trailed off but the distress in it did not escape him.

  ‘Is something amiss at home?’ Rhys asked.

  ‘Oh.’ She sighed. ‘My husband is a bit poorly, that is all.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he responded.

  ‘It was not the best time for me to leave him, you see, but we do need the money.’ She seemed to force a smile. ‘And I like to be of service when the hotel calls upon me.’

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ he asked, catching himself saying we as if Helene and he really were together and as if he was not adding Mrs Jacobs to his list of people with whom to become embroiled.

  She shook her head. ‘All is in hand. My husband will be able to care for himself.’ She glanced at him. ‘I should like to check on him once a day, if possible.’

  ‘We will arrange that, then.’ He said we again.

  They reached Wilson’s door.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Jacobs,’ Helene said as they entered. ‘You are back.’

  ‘With clean linens and nightclothes for Mr Wilson. Food for me, and—’ the nurse smiled cheerfully ‘your handsome captain.’

  A nerve twitched in Rhys’s jaw. Helene’s smile froze.

  Helene recovered. ‘You did not have to bring your own food. I will happily pay for you to eat. Whatever you wish to have.’

  Mrs Jacobs grinned. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’

  Rhys spoke up. ‘The hotel will deliver some broth, porridge and beer for Wilson. You can ask them then for whatever you want.’ He again sounded as though he and Helene were acting in concert.

  ‘Louise?’ Wilson called from the bed. ‘Louise? Is that you?’ His voice was a painful rasp.

  Helene hurried over to him. ‘Not Louise, Wilson.’ She brushed the damp hair from his face and Rhys felt her tenderness as if her gentle fingers had touched him. ‘Your nurse is here. Her name is Mrs Jacobs.’

  ‘Nurse?’ Wilson murmured. ‘Too much fuss. Too much money.’

  ‘Not too much fuss,’ Helene assured him. ‘And you know I can well afford it. You need a nurse. You should not be alone while you are so ill.’

  He grasped her hand. ‘You will send the message to Louise?’

  ‘Yes. I will do that right away.’ She squeezed his hand and brought it to her cheek. The loving gesture pierced Rhys’s heart.

  Mrs Jacobs shooed her away from the bedside. ‘Now you go off with your handsome captain, mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘I will take good care of Mr Wilson.’

  Rhys once again grimaced at Mrs Jacobs’s words, but, at the same time, it seemed so familiar for Helene and him to be seen as one. He shook himself. He must not be seduced into again thinking their inseparable childhood had ever been intended to last.

  He walked out of the room with Helene at his side, exactly as they might have done had they been together.

  As soon as they stepped out in the hall, she said, ‘I am not sending a message to Louise Desmet. I am going there myself.’

  Good idea, he thought. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will go.’

  She whirled on him. ‘No, Rhys. It must be me. Wilson is my responsibility. I need to deliver his message.’

  ‘You can trust me with the errand,’ he countered, his tone sharp.

  ‘What does trust have to do with it?’ She sounded exasperated. ‘I want to meet this Louise.’

  Rhys hardened his voice. ‘You cannot go alone.’

  She glared at him. ‘Of course I can go alone. Or I can arrange a servant to attend me. You do not need to go!’

  She did not want his company? That decided the matter. He would go, no matter what. ‘I know Brussels. You do not.’

  She put her hands on her hips. ‘Someone will direct me. No matter what you do, I am going to call upon Louise Desmet.’

  He held her gaze. ‘Then we go together.’

  She stared back at him. ‘I will need my hat.’

  He continued to look her in the eye. ‘I will meet you in the hall, then.’ He needed his hat and gloves, as well.

  They resumed walking again. When they reached her floor, he parted from her, but turned to say, ‘Do not set out on your own.’

  ‘What?’ she responded in a mocking tone. ‘You do not trust me?’

  He almost laughed. She always could give as well as take.

  Chapter Six

  As Helene descended the stairway to the hall, Rhys was waiting at the bottom, looking resplendent in his red coat and sash and gold epaulet on his shoulder. He stood more erect than in his youth, taller, but stiffer, as she expected an army officer must stand. A sight more intimidating than the welcoming young man of her past.

  As she neared him, his stony expression did not change. ‘I have directions to Rue de l’Evêque.’

  She merely nodded and fell into step beside him.

  They walked out of the hotel into a lovely summer day. The sun shone in blue skies dotted with puffy white clouds that looked like cotton wool. They were the sort of clouds she and Rhys used to gaze at on summer days, lying on their backs in the grass. Oh, I found a cat, she would say, pointing to the sky. I see a knight, he would add. Sometimes they could even find what the other pictured, but, in those days, they often saw eye to eye.

  This day she walked silently at his side, feeling more like a stranger. He led her up some stairs and through an iron gate. Suddenly they stood in a huge garden laid out in every direction with white gravel paths, plots of green grass and an abundance of flowers, trees and fountains. The garden was surrounded by magnificent houses, public buildings and the Place Royale where the Prince of Orange lived. The park was filled with officers wearing every type of uniform, many with elegant women on their arms. Some sat in the grass under the trees or clustered in small groups, conversing animatedly.

  Helene gasped at the sight. She’d only really seen Brussels at dusk and night, when she and Wilson entered the city through crowded narrow streets and wound up a hill that brought them to the hotel. When searching for David they returned to those lower streets whose shops and taverns looked much like those in London, except their signs were in French. She’d not guessed how beautiful Brussels could be—a city of grace and grandeur and opulence.

  She’d almost taken his arm as they joined the other pro
menaders on the paths, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

  ‘The Parc de Bruxelles,’ Rhys answered. ‘It will be faster if we cut through here.’

  He set a brisk pace.

  Did he not notice the beauty of this place? Everywhere were sights that delighted. From the colourful flowers, to the lush green trees, the white statues of gods and goddesses, the magnificent buildings.

  Up ahead a group of officers chatted with some fashionably dressed ladies. As they neared the group, one of the men in a uniform like Rhys’s gazed curiously at them and nodded to Rhys. She recognised the man as Rhys’s companion in the tavern that first night in Brussels when she’d finally found David. Rhys acknowledged his friend’s silent greeting but did not stop to speak to him.

  They left the garden and soon the Gothic towers of a cathedral filled her vision, its stone shining golden in the sunlight and its stained-glass windows sparkling with reds and blues and greens.

  She could not help but pause to gaze at it.

  Rhys walked on a few steps, then turned and walked back to her, standing at some distance.

  ‘It is so magnificent, is it not, Rhys?’ She forgot for the moment that they were estranged.

  * * *

  Rhys hesitated, caught by the vision of her in the sunlight, her lovely face filled with awe. He stepped closer to stand at her side.

  ‘It is a beautiful cathedral,’ he admitted.

  She turned, surveying all that surrounded them, then smiled at him. ‘This is my first real sight of the city.’

  That made sense. She’d either been searching for David or caring for Wilson.

  ‘I have been in Brussels for some time,’ he responded. ‘I am used to it.’ Not used to the power of her smile, though. He should not have accompanied her. She opened old wounds by reminding him of how it had once been between them.

  He gazed at the cathedral. ‘This is the Cathedral of St Michael and St Gudula, a Roman Catholic church.’

  ‘Oh?’ She gazed at it again. ‘I have never been in such a church.’