He watched Helene’s reaction, but she seemed to take no notice. Her eyes remained fixed on their hostess.
Madame Desmet picked up a wooden chair from a corner of the room. Rhys moved quickly to take it from her.
‘Allow me,’ he said, placing it near where Helene sat. He lowered himself into it, leaving the upholstered chair for Madame Desmet.
She looked uncertain for a moment before accepting the more comfortable chair. ‘May I ask why you have come and not Samuel? Did he change his mind about seeing me? Why send you and not simply write another letter?’
Helene bit her lip and glanced at Rhys.
He leaned forward. ‘He is ill, madame. Too ill to write.’
‘Ill?’ Her voice rose.
‘He has a fever,’ Helene explained. ‘He’s very weak, but he insisted we get a message to you.’
Rhys added, ‘We decided to do so in person, rather than engage a messenger.’ They were talking as they used to do, he realised, as if speaking with one voice.
Madame Desmet stared past them. ‘How ill is he?’
Helene gave her a wan smile. ‘We have every hope of his recovery.’
The older woman closed her eyes and looked as if someone had stabbed her in the heart. She stood abruptly, making both Rhys and Helene jump.
‘I must see him!’ she cried.
‘He may be contagious,’ Helene warned.
‘I do not care if he is. Please, Lady Helene, I must see him!’ she cried.
Rhys stood and turned to Helene. ‘We should take her to him.’
Helene attempted a reassuring smile for the woman. ‘Of course we will take you to him.’
‘Let us go now,’ Madame Desmet said, her tone frantic. She removed her apron and descended the stairs, grabbing a shawl and bonnet from pegs on the wall next to the door.
Helene and Rhys exchanged a glance, a silent communication that her urgency had surprised them both. They’d so often not needed words to know what the other was thinking. In the past, that was.
They followed Madame Desmet out the door.
Once outside the older woman walked swiftly, knowing, of course, the way to the hotel. Helene skipped hurriedly to catch up to her.
‘May I ask how you know Wilson?’ Helene asked,
‘We met years ago,’ Madame Desmet said.
‘In Brussels?’
‘Oui.’
‘Wilson was in Brussels?’ Helene was nearly out of breath at the older woman’s fast pace.
‘Long ago,’ Madame Desmet replied. ‘Before the war.’
And the occupation by the French, Helene presumed. She still thought of Wilson as a child might, that his existence began and continued with her life, not that he’d had a life before coming to Yarford House.
‘He never spoke of it,’ Helene said.
Madame Desmet looked at her as if she were a simpleton. ‘He is a servant, no?’
Of course. What servant ever spoke of their own life?
Rhys, with his long legs, had no difficulty keeping up. ‘What brought Wilson to Brussels, then?’
‘He served a young gentleman on his grand tour,’ Madame explained.
Before the war with Napoleon, a trip to the Continent had been customary for wealthy young gentlemen, who were accompanied by a tutor and a servant to tend to their needs. The young gentleman was expected to expand his knowledge by visiting the major sights and cities of the various countries, to immerse himself in their art and architecture. Helene was not such a green girl to fail knowing that a young gentleman’s education might also include brothels and gaming rooms for an entirely different sort of education.
What an adventure it must have been for Wilson, as well.
Helene had a dozen more questions, but it was too difficult to walk this briskly and carry on a conversation at the same time.
As they passed the cathedral, Madame Desmet dashed across the street ahead of Rhys and Helene. Helene, trying to keep up with her, stepped into the street. At the same time, a speeding carriage came around the corner. Its two horses, sweat gleaming on their coats, headed straight for her. She froze in alarm.
Suddenly strong arms pulled her back, slamming her against a rock-hard chest. Rhys held her there, his arms encircling her, as the carriage thundered past making the ground tremble beneath the horses’ powerful hooves.
Helene’s senses burst into life. The fright at almost being run down. The glory of being held by him.
‘Rhys,’ she whispered.
He abruptly released her. ‘Take more care, Helene,’ he said gruffly.
He seized her arm and led her across the street, releasing her the minute they were on the pavement again.
Madame Desmet was several paces ahead of them and apparently had not seen her close call. Helene glanced at Rhys whose expression turned to stone.
Helene felt tears sting her eyes—of anger and perhaps relief. She might have been killed! Rhys saved her, but in such an unfeeling, gruff way that she felt trampled upon, nonetheless.
She caught up with Madame Desmet at the door of the hotel. Helene swallowed her own feelings and turned her attention to the older woman. ‘Do you need a moment or shall we take you to his room directly?’
‘Take me to his room,’ Madame Desmet said, her voice trembling.
Rhys offered Madame Desmet his arm. ‘Come,’ he said gently.
Madame Desmet was offered kindness and Helene received a mere scolding? She trailed behind them, watching Rhys climb the stairs slowly, knowing he was doing so to help Madame Desmet compose herself before entering Wilson’s room. Knowing, too, that he did not care a fig if Helene followed or not. It seemed he had not changed quite as much as she thought. He’d merely changed towards her.
Rhys and Madame Desmet had already gained entry to Wilson’s room when Helene stepped through the doorway.
‘He is dozing,’ Mrs Jacobs was telling them.
Rhys held Madame Desmet back from rushing to the bedside. ‘Mrs Jacobs, this is Madame Desmet. She is the Louise Wilson has been calling for.’ He turned to Madame Desmet. ‘Mrs Jacobs is his nurse.’
Mrs Jacobs, certainly unable to miss the distress and worry in Madame Desmet’s face, took her in hand, and placed a comforting arm around her. ‘I am certain you will be like a tonic to him.’ She squeezed her a little, like one might do a child. ‘We will wake him. Tell him you are here.’
‘I’ll wake him,’ Rhys said. He quietly approached the bed and gently touched Wilson on the shoulder. ‘Wilson. Wilson. You have a visitor.’
The older man’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled faintly at Rhys. Rhys stepped aside and gestured for Madame Desmet to approach.
‘Samuel?’ Her voice cracked. ‘Samuel.’ She flew to his side.
Wilson’s face beamed as if lit by the sun. ‘Louise,’ he whispered, reaching for her hand.
She grasped it and, lowering herself into the chair, placed his hand against her cheek. ‘I am here, Samuel.’
Tears again stung Helene’s eyes, but this time due to this tender scene.
Mrs Jacobs, her arms crossing her chest, nodded her head. ‘They were lovers, you can bet upon it. I can always tell.’
Rhys, who had paid Helene no attention at all since her close encounter with the carriage, now turned to her, but his expression remained grim. To her dismay, her insides fluttered in response to his gaze. She supposed she would always react to his eyes upon her, even when he hurt her.
Helene walked past him to Wilson’s bedside. She squatted down so that she could be almost at eye level with him. ‘See, Wilson? We have brought your Louise to you. She may remain at your side for as long as you and she wish. I am going to leave you now, but I will return later to check on you.’
With his free hand, Wilson reached for hers, clasping it firmly. ‘Thank you, m’lady.
Thank you.’
She did not deserve all his credit. ‘Rhys accompanied me. I could not have found your Louise without his help.’
‘Rhys?’ the old man cried. ‘Rhys is here?’
Helene frowned. He’d not remembered it was Rhys who had awakened him?
Rhys came to Helene’s side. ‘I am here, Wilson. Here to help in whatever way I can.’
‘With Lady Helene again!’ Wilson turned to Madame Desmet. ‘Is that not delightful?’
She gave Helene a worried glance. She, too, had noticed his mind was still addled. She smiled down at Wilson, though. ‘Very delightful.’
Helene patted Wilson’s hand and pulled hers out of his grip. ‘I am leaving now. I will be back.’
He paid no heed, simply gazed at Madame Desmet.
Helene walked over to Mrs Jacobs whose smile could not have been wider. She inclined her head towards her patient and his visitor. ‘Isn’t that a pretty sight? Reminds me of me and my Hulbert.’ Her smile drooped for a moment but a poor replica of it returned when she faced Helene. ‘And you and your captain.’
Rhys walked over before Helene could correct her about Rhys. ‘I will leave, as well.’ He walked to the door.
‘Are you comfortable with having Madame Desmet stay?’ Helene asked Mrs Jacobs.
The woman laughed. ‘I think she is just the medicine he needs.’ She shooed Helene towards Rhys. ‘Do not worry over a thing. Enjoy this pretty day, you two.’
Mrs Jacobs closed the door behind them and Helene and Rhys stood in the dimly lit hallway, facing each other. The silence between them stretched to an unbearable length. What had happened to the days where they had much to say to the other?
She could not stand there another second. ‘I shall go to my room,’ she stated. She turned away from him and hurried down the hallway.
* * *
Rhys kept pace with her, searching for something to say, anything but what was in his heart—that he was so grateful she was alive, so thankful he had been there to pull her out of the path of the speeding carriage. What would have happened had he not been there? That was all he’d thought of since he’d held her close.
He could say none of that to her.
‘What did you think of Louise Desmet?’ he asked instead.
She looked surprised at his question or perhaps surprised that he spoke at all after he’d been silent for so long. ‘They seem devoted to each other,’ she finally said.
He agreed.
Rhys saw himself in Wilson, even though Wilson was so much older. How Wilson looked at his Louise? That was how Rhys once felt to be with Helene. Full of joy and relief. As if his world was finally complete.
Something else he could not tell Helene, not after Helene scraped him raw that day when he learned she would not marry him, and her father sent him away. He’d learned to bury that pain.
‘Are you not checking on your brother today?’ His tone turned disdainful.
‘I left him a note,’ she said.
Rhys decided not to tell her he’d dragged her brother out of yet another tavern the night before. Why worry her more?
They reached her floor. ‘No need to walk me to my room,’ she said. ‘I will bid you good day here.’
‘As you wish.’ He turned to leave her.
‘Rhys?’
He turned back to her.
‘Thank you for coming with me to find Madame Desmet. You were correct. It would have been difficult for me to find her alone.’ Her lovely face had a ghost of a smile. ‘And I am for ever in your debt for pulling me out of the way of the carriage.’ Her voice wobbled.
His carefully banked emotions threatened to spill over, but he kept his voice even. ‘I would have done so for anyone.’
She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, I suppose you would.’
She turned and walked down the hallway to her room. Rhys watched her until she turned the corner. He remained there for a moment not quite knowing what to do. Clearing his throat, he descended the stairs.
He had a sudden thirst for a very large tankard of beer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
David sat on horseback as he and William Lennox rode on a country lane past fields of barley and wheat, edged with hedgerows. The sun was high in the blue sky and the horse he rode was a fine one. What could be better?
William had lent David this fine horse. The mare belonged to William’s father, the Duke of Richmond. He was actually riding a horse owned by the Duke of Richmond. Wellington’s friend. It was almost like being in Wellington’s circle, was it not?
David’s morning had not begun on a high note. He’d woken with a ponderous headache from the previous night’s carousing, but it had completely gone away after his breakfast of eggs and beer. He wished he and William could ride like the wind! He was bursting with excitement.
‘So, this is one of the roads Wellington believes the French will use to reach Brussels?’ he asked, somewhat rhetorically.
‘As my father says,’ William responded in a weary tone. ‘One of three possible routes, but we have spoken of this before.’
William was in a bit of ill humour this day, but that was due to his eye injury, David believed. The injury might keep him out of the battle. What could be worse? David refused to give in to William’s blue devils, though. Nothing would ruin David’s good cheer.
‘I have, by the way, spoken to my mother,’ William went on. ‘You, your sister, and Captains Landon and Grantwell will all receive invitations to the ball.’
‘I am very grateful!’ David cried. ‘And it certainly will impress Rhys and his friend that I have procured invitations for them!’
‘I have procured the invitations, David,’ William said testily.
David gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Of course you have! I meant only that I am lucky enough to be your friend.’ The ball was another event David greatly anticipated. The Duke of Wellington, the Prince of Orange, and all sorts of important people would be there.
David would not miss a moment of it. ‘Perhaps I can come early to the ball. Help you out in some way.’ It would not hurt to be considered a close friend of the family. He might even get to meet Wellington.
William glanced over at him. ‘Do you not have to escort your sister?’
Helene. What a trial it was to have her chase after him here, thinking she could bully him into doing as she wished.
‘I’ll get Rhys to escort her. He was our vicar’s son and they used to be chums. He won’t mind.’ David had no intention of being tied to Helene’s apron strings at a ball where every important military officer was to be present. He planned to avoid her at all costs, like he’d done that morning, escaping before she came looking for him.
He refused to have Helene dampen his spirits. Even more than the ball, he was about to be part of the most exciting battle of the whole war. Napoleon versus Wellington! What could be more grand?
The road was empty for the moment, but David could just see some movement in the distance, too far to tell if it was a carriage or a wagon or someone on horseback.
His imagination flared. ‘Would it not be astonishing if we came upon the French marching on this very road at his very time!’
William responded, ‘If the French were this close, Wellington would know of it. He has exploring officers all over the Continent, you may depend upon it.’
‘I know.’ David sighed. ‘But it would be such a coup if you and I discovered the French advance and brought the intelligence to Wellington.’
‘At least I would have some role in the battle, then,’ William grumbled.
David was riding close enough to reach out and thump William on his shoulder. ‘Come now! Your eye will heal! You must be a part of it!’
They rode on, reaching the crest of the gently sloping hill. Below them a small village lay.
‘I wonder if there is
a tavern in this village,’ David said. ‘We could stop for some beer. I am prodigiously fond of Belgian beer.’
As they neared the village they came upon a sign giving its name.
Mont Saint Jean.
* * *
Helene paced the hotel room. It was comfortable enough, spacious enough for a sitting area near the fire and a table for dining, but, in her restless state, the room seemed like a prison cell. She had nothing to do, none of the distractions of home, the minor tasks, the mending, meeting with the housekeeper, seeing that all ran smoothly. She did not even have a book to read.
She greatly needed distraction. From thinking about Rhys. No matter how she tried, her thoughts returned to him.
She stopped pacing and tightly closed her eyes, remembering how incredible it felt to have his arms encircle her and hold her tight when he rescued her from the speeding carriage. And how bereft when he just as quickly released her.
She clenched her fists and stifled a frustrated cry. She wanted to be gone from this place! She wanted to be home where there were endless chores to do.
She’d planned to be on the journey home by now, she, David and Wilson. She’d not even packed for more than a few days. But how long would it be before Wilson could be well enough to travel—that is, if his fever did not take a turn for the worse, like the fever had done for her father?
Wilson could still die from the fever.
Rhys could die in the battle.
Even David could die, if she did not succeed in keeping him from the battle.
She walked to the window, which faced the street in front of the hotel. Carriages rolled by, men rode on horseback, and all sorts of people dashed about as if life was proceeding normally. She wanted to scream a warning at them. All could be lost. In one day, in one moment, all could be lost.
Like that day her father told Rhys she would not marry him and sent him to join the army.
She groaned aloud.
It did her no good to dwell on that. Better to be busy at something. Anything.
She spun around and strode to the writing desk, removing paper, ink and a pen. She wrote a note, blew on it so the ink dried quickly and folded it. She picked up her bonnet, shawl and gloves and walked out the door and through the hallways and stairs to David’s room.
Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 31