Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo

by Diane Gaston

  As they strolled around the room, a few people took notice of them. Some officers nodded to Rhys; a few ladies greeted Helene by name and sent admiring glances towards her escort.

  ‘You seem to belong in this company,’ he commented in a low voice.

  ‘I’ve had practice.’ Three Seasons in London to be specific.

  The air between them turned sour again. There was something about this ball that was different than the ones she’d attended in London, as if the air was crackling with tension instead of frivolity. As they strolled through the room, snippets of conversations reached their ears. The French. The French, she kept hearing. Rhys’s muscles grew tense under her fingers. They passed a small group of officers. Rhys turned his head—at something he’d heard apparently—and he paused a moment before continuing.

  ‘What is it, Rhys?’ she asked.

  ‘I am not certain.’ He frowned. ‘Men are talking.’

  Talking about the French.

  The discordant notes of the band tuning their instruments transformed into actual music and the dancing was announced. As much as Helene loved dancing—dancing with Rhys, that was—she hoped he would not ask her. The dance would separate them more and she did not wish to let go of him. They stood and watched the couples take their positions. The conversations around them became louder as the music played louder and the dancers’ feet pounded the wooden floor.

  ‘Let us find a quiet place,’ Rhys said.

  She brightened at the idea. ‘Oh, yes.’

  They walked back to the entrance where the flow of guests had dwindled. The duchess and her daughters had left the receiving line and her daughters were among the dancers on the floor. Rhys and Helene slipped out and found a door leading to the garden behind the building. A few other couples could be seen here and there in the garden, seeking some privacy. She and Rhys did not move far from the door. He seemed far away, though, lost in thought.

  Helene’s mind raced. Perhaps he did not wish her company after all. Had she misread his behaviour? Had Grant’s abrupt departure once again forced Rhys to be obliged to attend her?

  She gazed out at the garden. ‘Rhys, do not feel you must be cemented to my side. I would not have you feel duty-bound to keep me company.’

  He swivelled to her, his eyes flashing. ‘Do you wish me to leave you?’ he asked hotly. ‘If you do, believe me I take no further offence.’

  No further offence? Why was he so determined to misunderstand her? Why could he not set aside the hurt she’d done him just for a few minutes? She wanted to snap back at him, but she held her tongue until it was under better control. Instead she would be truthful. Unlike her father had been to her.

  She softened her voice. ‘No, I do not wish you to leave me. I value your company above all things. But I sense your discomfort and I accept that you might feel very differently about being with me.’

  He glanced away again and it took him time to answer. ‘Not that. Not you. Something is afoot. Something—everyone is on edge. I can feel it and I hear it in their voices.’

  This was a new worry. ‘Something about the French?’

  ‘Yes, but I do not know what it is. I do not think anyone else knows either.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Something...’ He turned back to her. ‘Forgive my distraction. Perhaps we should return to the ballroom. I can help you look for David, if you wish to speak to him.’

  David, again. She did not want to think of David. ‘I believe I shall allow David to enjoy himself without my interference.’ Be truthful, she told herself. ‘Could we stay out here a little longer?’

  ‘You do not wish to dance?’ He made it sound like an accusation, but was he accusing her of not wanting to dance with him?

  She was at sea. She did not know if he was pushing her away or daring her to come closer.

  ‘You are dressed for dancing,’ he added.

  * * *

  What a war raged inside Rhys. The soldier in him wanted to return to the ballroom to discover precisely what was causing the other military guests to be on edge. The wounded youth inside him wanted to still complain of how she and her father had deeply injured him. But he was also a man standing next to her, inhaling the allure of her perfume. That man merely desired to take her in his arms and again taste her lips as he had done so long ago. The lot of him was making a bungle of everything.

  To his surprise, she smiled at him. ‘Shall I tell you the story of my dress?’

  ‘Your dress has a story?’ He had no idea where she was leading him.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Did you think I packed a ball gown to bring with me to Brussels when I intended to be here only two days at the most?’

  ‘I thought nothing.’ He still did not know where this was leading.

  ‘Men,’ she scoffed, but her tone was light. ‘You think gowns simply appear out of the mist.’

  He was in no mood to be teased. ‘So how did you come by the gown?’

  She smiled again. ‘Louise Desmet arranged for me to borrow it.’

  ‘Madame Desmet owned such a gown?’ Why would a woman, who lived as simply as Madame Desmet lived, have need of a ball gown?

  ‘No, but, in a way, it is hers.’ She smiled again as if ready to tell the answer to a riddle. ‘She made the gown. She has been a seamstress for the theatre for many years. She took me there and we searched through their costumes until we found this dress. She altered it to fit me.’

  ‘The dress is a theatre costume?’ He would never have guessed such a thing.

  Helene touched the earrings dangling from her ears. ‘She borrowed these from the theatre, as well. They are paste.’

  It seemed a great deal of effort to expend merely to attend this ball. Was it that important to her? As it was for David? And would have been for her father?

  To his surprise, her eyes turned to mischief like they’d so often done when they were children. She leaned closer to him. ‘Think of what these ladies would say if they knew I am wearing a dress, jewellery and shoes last worn by an actress!’

  Unexpectedly his heart warmed to her. She seemed less like the Earl’s daughter and more like the girl he’d once loved, amused by absurdities. ‘How could they say anything but that you outshine them all?’

  ‘Do I, Rhys?’ Her gaze met his and he suddenly could not think of her as a girl.

  It unsettled him. He lifted the edge of her gold shawl. ‘And this came from the theatre, as well?’

  She ran her hands over the intricately knotted lace. ‘This? This lovely shawl, I fear, I purchased for myself, because I could not resist it.’

  ‘You chose well,’ he said and meant it. Even under the light from the lamp at the doorway, she sparkled.

  Her eyes glittered with pleasure at his words.

  He glanced away for a moment, unprepared for the emotions inside him. ‘But you must have worn many beautiful gowns and shawls at the many balls you attended in London.’ When he looked back, the pleasure in her eyes had faded.

  She solemnly returned his gaze. ‘I wore many fashionable dresses during my London Seasons, all made at the direction of my mother and never of my own choosing.’ Her arms swept down her dress. ‘I chose this actress’s costume, this borrowed, second-hand dress, and I like it better than any the ones made by the ton’s most sought-after modiste.’

  He let his eyes sweep over the full length of her. She had chosen very well.

  She went on. ‘And Mrs Jacobs and Louise Desmet were by far my favourite lady’s maids. I have never before so enjoyed the preparation for a ball.’

  Rhys could not help but smile. ‘I’ll wager Mrs Jacobs gave many instructions.’

  She laughed and something like joy burst inside him. ‘She did indeed.’

  From inside the ballroom, Rhys faintly heard the next dance announced. ‘They are announcing a waltz. Will you come back inside and
dance with me?’

  Her smile widened. ‘Yes. Yes. I will dance the waltz with you, Rhys.’

  He gave her his hand and they walked back to the ballroom in time to take their places on the dance floor. Rhys noticed Grant escorting the eldest of the duke’s daughters on to the floor, as well.

  The music started.

  Rhys and Helene stood side by side, they clasped their left hands in front of them and their right hands behind, as they performed the four march steps. They then turned so that they faced each other, raising their left arms in an arc above their heads and holding each other’s backs with the other hand. Then the waltz steps had them twirling with each other around the dance floor. The other couples faded from Rhys’s view. He had eyes only for Helene, the most beautiful woman in the room. The music filled his ears and it seemed as if time suspended them in this dance. There was no anger and pain from the past; no thought of battle in the future. Only Helene in his arms, her face flushed, her lips parted, her eyes meeting his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Helene’s heart soared with every twirl. To waltz with Rhys, to be held in his arms, was a joy she thought she would never again experience. She must hold this moment in memory for all time.

  The music stopped.

  She and Rhys stood, their arms still holding each other, their gazes locked, while the other dancers started to walk off the dance floor.

  Rhys finally spoke. ‘Would you care for refreshment?’

  She only cared that she be able to remain with him. ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  He held her hand as they walked off the dance floor to an area where servants were offering trays of wine. He handed a glass to Helene and took one for himself.

  As they sipped, Rhys turned his attention away from her. That same tension she’d sensed in him when they’d walked outside returned.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘Wellington is here.’ He gestured to a tall man dressed, not in regimentals, but plainly in black.

  He had the prominent nose she’d so often read of in the newspapers and which was very exaggerated in the satiric prints displayed in shop windows. Grant stood not very far from the duke, who was conversing with the Duchess of Richmond and her daughter, Georgiana. Grant spied Rhys and Helene and walked over to them.

  ‘What news?’ Rhys asked him.

  ‘Little more than we knew before,’ his friend answered. ‘Napoleon is on the march. The French attacked the Prussian advance forces on the Sambre. We are to be in readiness in the morning.’

  ‘It is happening, then?’ Helene asked.

  ‘Very nearly,’ Rhys said. He turned to her, seizing her arms. ‘You must corral David.’ He all but shook her. ‘Insist he accompany you home right away. I will look out for Wilson. But you must leave Brussels.’

  Leave? She trembled at the idea of a French attack and Rhys in the middle of it. Her principal aim had been to leave Brussels with David, but now...now she detested the idea. She wished above all things that she would not have to part from Rhys.

  It was a futile wish. Napoleon had seen to it.

  She nodded.

  ‘We might as well stay at the ball,’ Grant said. ‘Wellington is staying.’

  The incongruous sound of bagpipes startled them. Rhys put an arm around Helene as several Highlanders, dressed in kilts, marched in the room.

  ‘These are the Gordon Highlanders,’ Rhys told her.

  Helene had read of them. Dressed in their red coats and kilts, they’d fought in many battles on the Peninsula.

  As the bagpipes blared, the Highlanders demonstrated Scottish reels. They ended by placing their swords on the floor and dancing intricate steps around and between them.

  After they marched out of the room, to the applause of the guests, supper was announced. Not everyone stayed for the supper. Some officers left the ball so there were many empty seats. The Duke of Wellington did not leave, however, and Helene could only think that meant matters were not as urgent as they could have been. No need yet to part from Rhys.

  During the supper, a young officer dressed in riding boots and covered with the dust of the road, entered the room and passed a message to the Prince of Orange. The Prince, without even reading the message, gave it to the Duke of Wellington.

  She noticed Rhys was watching this scene intently. When Wellington read the message and spoke quietly to several important-looking men at his table, Rhys said, ‘Come. I mean to learn what was said.’

  The Duke of Richmond led Wellington and others out of the supper room to another room nearby. Rhys, Grant and Helene followed.

  Before closing the door, Wellington signalled Rhys to him. ‘Captain, see no one enters this room while we are here.’

  Rhys snapped to attention and stood in the doorway.

  They all waited for what seemed a very long time but could only have been minutes. Finally, the door opened and the men inside rushed out.

  Wellington took the time to speak to Rhys and Grant. ‘We will sound the call to arms. Have your men ready to march at dawn. We’ll meet the French at Quatre Bras.’

  Helene did not know where Quatre Bras was. She only knew her time with Rhys was short. And her heart, so recently full of joy, again broke into little pieces.

  * * *

  Rhys, Grant and Helene made their way back to the ballroom. There was a crush of people at the entrance of the room, waiting to collect their cloaks and hats.

  ‘We’ll wait for the entrance to clear.’ Rhys held on to Helene’s arm. He was not ready to let go of her.

  ‘I am going to push my way through,’ Grant said. ‘You see Helene back to the hotel. There should be a carriage waiting for her. I’ll leave for the regiment as soon as I can change.’

  Rhys ought to do the same. He glanced at Helene whose brow was creased with tension. How could he leave her like that? ‘If—if I am delayed, see to my men, would you, Grant? I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ The regiment was to gather at the Parc de Bruxelles.

  It was already near two in the morning. There were few hours left before dawn when his soldiers would march the less than ten miles to Quatre Bras, a crossroads he and Grant had noted when studying maps of the area.

  While they stood waiting for the crowd to ease, he glimpsed David in the doorway.

  ‘David!’ Helene cried.

  Her brother turned and saw her. ‘I’ll—I’ll come see you tomorrow, Helene. I’m staying the night with William.’ He disappeared in the throng of people, like the thoughtless wretch he was.

  ‘Do you want me to go after him?’ Rhys asked her.

  ‘No.’ She gripped his arm. ‘Stay with me, Rhys. You’ll never find him anyway. I doubt he’ll get himself into trouble in the Duke and Duchess’s house.’

  Rhys gladly waited at her side until the crowd eased and he was finally able to retrieve his shako. When he and Helene walked out to the street, they found the throngs of people had simply moved out there. The street was jumbled with carriages and horses, all at a standstill. The call to arms rang through the streets.

  ‘Which is your carriage?’ he asked her.

  She craned her neck. ‘The driver wore yellow livery. I do not see him.’ She pulled on Rhys’s arm. ‘Let us walk, Rhys. It is not far. You cannot waste time waiting for a carriage.’

  When they’d last walked the streets of Brussels, they’d not touched, nor spoken, having said so many upsetting words to each other already. This time he wrapped his arm around her and held her firmly while they made their way through the press of people waiting for carriages.

  When they were finally through the worst of the crowd, he released her, but they walked swiftly.

  Helene held on to his arm. ‘Tell me what will happen, Rhys. What will happen tomorrow?’

  ‘Quatre Bras is a crossroads that must be held. We’ll face the French there,
but I heard Wellington say we will likely not stop them there. He spoke of another place nearby. That is where the main battle will be.’

  ‘Rhys!’ He heard the stress in her voice. ‘Men will be killed. You might be—’

  He stopped and faced her. ‘I have fought before, Helene. I am able to take care of myself.’

  The truth was he’d have little control over whether he lived or died. No matter his skill in battle, death was one cannonball or musket shot or sword thrust away. In other battles he’d not given his own death much thought; his mind was more set on getting his men through. Tonight, though, his mortality weighed heavily on his mind. He’d just found Helene again. He did not want this to be his last night with her.

  Memories raced through Rhys’s mind as they resumed their swift pace. Of Helene and him as children playing for hours on end. Of his youth when he first noticed she was pretty and graceful—and shaped like a woman. How well he remembered those first stirrings of attraction towards her. Then, when only a little older, the thrill of planning to elope with her.

  * * *

  When they reached the hotel, it, too, was a frenzy of activity. Officers dashed past them or stood embracing weeping women. Rhys led Helene up the stairway to her room. When they reached her door, her hands trembled as she pulled the key from her reticule. He took it and turned it in the lock, opening the door.

  They were at the moment of parting.

  This was his last chance to protect her. ‘When David comes tomorrow, do not let him go to the battle. Leave for England. Get away. I will see to Wilson—if I can. If I cannot, he has Madame Desmet. But you must get away.’

  She grasped the fabric of his coat in her fingers. ‘Rhys. Do not say the Allies will lose.’

  He covered her hands with his own. ‘We will win eventually, because we will fight until we do, but this will be a nasty business. Napoleon is a skilled general and his troops are seasoned soldiers.’

  She lowered her head so he could not see her face and she pulled away. ‘I know you must leave.’