“Y … yes. But …”
“What is it?”
“The staff. Our staff from London. Those who came with us. They aren’t staying here, in Paris, are they?”
“They will come with us. Everyone may bring one change of clothes. Everything else must be left here. We will take care of anything we’ll need when we get back to London.”
“Very well, Maman. I mean to take a bath. It will be at least six days until I may do so again.” Mimi’s forehead puckered. She’d just begun to get used to Paris. She’d felt as if she’d been moving on from Richard. She’d created a life in which she felt content, even happy sometimes.
Now, she would, inevitably, see her love again. What was she to do? Part of her thrilled at the thought, but the other part of her wondered if he had moved on from their love. Maybe he’d found someone else.
“Giselle? Will you help me bathe? Then I will help you. We don’t have much time.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. But, it wouldn’t be seemly for you to assist me. I will get you bathed and dressed for travel. One change of clothing means you must dress in layers. I know how to do it. I will help you.”
“Thank you, Giselle.”
“It’s exciting to be going back to London, no, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes. It is, Giselle. It’s also strange.”
“Because you’ll see young Mister Warren again?”
“Partially. Yes. I don’t know how I’ll respond when I see him.”
“Do you still love him, Miss Mimi?”
“I do, Giselle. But I had almost gotten myself to the point where I could imagine a life in the future. Without him. The good Duke has been elusive the entire time we’ve been in Paris. I dare say he wasn’t here to begin with. But Maman. You know how she is when she sets her mind to something. I have a feeling we might be going back to London in search of Duke Hertford. He is the only available Duke other than that ninety-year-old three times widowed Duke of whatever. I can’t remember who he is because Mamane is obsessed with Hertford. No one else is good enough for her. A standard gentleman will not do.”
“No, Mademoiselle we are not chasing anyone back to London. Bonaparte, the brother, is running from the English, Spanish, and Portuguese across the mountains back to France. We should go back to London. It’s safer. Truly, it is.”
“Well, if you are in strong agreement with my mother, I cannot fight you both. To London, it is.”
“Very good, Mademoiselle.”
“But, Giselle? May I ask you something?”
“Oui. Of course, Mademoiselle. Anything.”
“What will I do if my path should cross with Richard’s again?”
Chapter 6
London
Summer 1813
“Jones, will you get that?” Mimi glanced up from her luncheon to the sound of the front door knocker. “I’d hate for Maman to be disturbed. She’s exhausted from her adventures travelling through the countryside of France and England in the dead of night!” She laughed to herself.
“Mimi!” While she’d been talking, Jones had answered the door to none other than Lavinia Warren who had brushed past him and practically run down the stairs to the sitting room.
Mimi hurried to the door and embraced the older woman. “Mrs Warren. How are you? How is Rich, uh, how is everyone? My maman tells me you are a grandmother now.”
“Yes, it’s true. My dear daughter-in-law, Ellen and my son George have a lovely little girl. Mary Lavinia. Has a ring to it, does it not?” Lavinia sat near the window and perused the street momentarily.
“Yes. It certainly does. How wonderful for your family.”
“Thank you, Mimi. I’m sorry I didn’t send a note requesting to call. When your mother dropped by yesterday, she said it would be fine if I came over to see you anytime. And, how are you, dear? Your mother hasn’t married you off. Is she still planning on it?”
“I’m afraid she is.” Mimi chuckled.
“When did you get back to London, dear?”
“Ah, yesterday morning. We travelled at night.”
“Very good. Always the best way. It’s faster, you know. Your mother must have come by as soon as you’d arrived.”
“Yes. The travel was fast, but I didn’t know my maman was over to see you. I must confess I went straight to bed the minute I was in the door. The bed still had the canvas covering, no blankets or bed sheets. I dug a quilt from the cedar chest and wrapped myself in it. I slept straight through until this morning.”
“That’s a good bit of sleep. Are you well, Mimi?”
“I’m well enough. I was exhausted. The travel was fast but still quite tiring.”
“It must be difficult to come back to this house. All the memories. I still can’t believe your father is gone. He was such a nice man. Are you sure you are well?”
“Yes. Please, Mrs Warren, don’t worry about me.”
The two women were silent, gazing at each other, out the window or around the room, but saying nothing. Two minutes went by. Then five.
Finally, Lavinia spoke. “I suppose you must wonder about Richard. Do you not?”
“I’d be lying if I said I do not. I’ve wondered about him every day since Maman and I went to Paris over a year ago.”
Lavinia eyed Mimi’s face up and down, studying her. “He was heartbroken when you left, as I’m sure you know.”
“No. No, I did not know that.”
“And he was insistent on bettering his place in society so your mother would accept him.”
“Bettering his place?” Mimi shrugged. “What did he do, buy land somewhere?”
“No, he did not.”
“Oh.”
Nancy entered the room with tea and set the tray on the little table.
“Tea, Mrs Warren?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mimi prepared two cups, all the while feeling uncomfortable as if she were about to get bad news.
“Here you are. And seed cake? Would you like some?”
“No, thank you, dear. Just the tea.” She sipped the hot liquid. “Mmm. You have a talent for making tea, Mimi.”
“Thank you, Mrs Warren. I am happy you came to call. Now, what news have you of Richard?”
“Wonderful, dear.” Lavinia sipped her tea. “I think I might have some seed cake after all.”
“Very well. And then will you tell me why you are really here? Where is Richard?”
“My purpose for coming here to see you, Mimi is to welcome you and your mother back to London.”
“And?”
Lavinia sighed. “Very well. I will discuss my son with you.”
“Thank you. What do you wish to discuss? Richard’s whereabouts? Has he gotten married?”
“No, Mimi, he is not married. And he has no sweetheart or betrothed.”
“Then where is he?”
“He is in Spain, dear. Richard joined the army after you left. He is with Wellington chasing the French army back to France.”
*******
Toulouse
Summer 1814
The jolt of the cart sent searing pain throughout Lieutenant Richard Warren’s body. He tried to open his eyes against the sun and cracked them enough to see the bright blue of the sky shining down between the dirty strands of hair of the man whose back lay on top of him in the cart.
As his consciousness came to him more fully, Richard realised he, himself, was stacked on top of someone else. Someone who didn’t move at all or make a sound. Indeed, Richard held his breath and felt nothing from the body beneath his. There was no gentle in and out of breath or shallow pants. He knew he rested upon a dead man.
He heard soldiers calling to one another, the horses’ hooves on the dirt road, the creak of the other carts, heaped with the dead and dying. He heard the groans of the maimed and injured, and the utter silence of the dead. And they were all piled like so much offal from the street, one on top of the other. The alarming terror and nauseating stench of it all threatened to overtake him.
The pain in his body and head was acute, throbbing. He knew he must be alive or he would never have felt the splitting sensations in his flesh. He vaguely envied those whose pain was over. Pain that was no longer sharpened by each turn of the cart’s wheels. He worked his brain with trying to remember how it was he came to be here on this vehicle of death.
The rocking of the cart lulled him somewhat. If he could just imagine that he wasn’t wedged between two or more other bodies, he might be able to sleep. Deep slumber would be a good antidote to the agony that racked him. He prayed for respite from his misery.
Then he tried to will the pain away, but then memories of the battle would come to him with fierce reality. They’d marched twenty miles the first day and finally crossed the river, the Garron, north of the city. There they met the enemy, and the fighting had been savage.
He remembered the now familiar feeling of flight that had set in the moment the first shots had been fired. All he’d wanted was to run away. In the other direction. In any direction but the one he was headed in. Instead, he’d hacked and shot his way forward, stepping over bloodied bodies and dismembered limbs, squinting through the smoke and tumult, fighting with every ounce of strength he had. Pressing forward. Until. What?
What had happened? He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying with all his might to remember. His unit had advanced on the Calvinet ridge over the city. The defensive fire from the French had been intense.
A deep sob escaped him as he recalled in vivid detail the moment he’d looked behind him. The sea of men involved in the climb had seemed to come from a nightmare, their fatigue obvious in their faces and movements. Falling, getting back up to continue the assault. Falling. It had all seemed as in a slow, smoke thickened motion.
Warren had turned back around to continue his trek up the ridge when the sun glared into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. And the instant that would change his life forever had arrived.
He’d felt rather than seen the cannonball as it came up and over the peak above Toulouse. It had hit the ground with a deafening crash, landing almost next to him, exploding and sending shrapnel in all directions.
A searing, white hot pain had enveloped his leg then. The leg gave out from underneath him and left him crumpled on the ground. He lay there, gazing up at the sky as his fellow soldiers stepped over him in their ascent. He felt something hot dripping around his head, pooling in his ears, and realised it was his own blood. There was pain in almost every cell he possessed. There was something numb also. One part of his body felt nothing. No pain. Was he dying? Did the numbness mean he was leaving his body? He squeezed his eyes closed again. What was happening to him?
His leg! Warren opened his eyes against the bright sun. The lock of hair still spilled across his face from the soldier piled on top of him. His pain was fierce. Except in his right leg.
He wiggled his toes and felt nothing. No. It couldn’t be. Was his leg there? Was it? He fought the panic that threatened to overtake him. He couldn’t breathe. He thought he would vomit and feared he would choke himself to death. He couldn’t push the dense body of the other soldier off of himself. He couldn’t move at all. He began to scream even as he knew it would do no good. No one could hear him. There was no one to rescue him from the cart, the mountain peaks, the blinding sun, the dead. The pain. There was no one to comfort him or set his mind at ease in the realisation that there was a complete lack of feeling where his right leg was supposed to be.
*******
After two months in a French rehabilitation hospital, Richard was sent home to London. He was in great pain most of the two week journey, and when he arrived in London, he was looking forward to a hot bath and a soft bed.
He was helped down from the coach by the driver who then handed him his travel bag. Richard thanked the man, tipped him, and looked around the stage station.
How different everything looked from the small French town he had recuperated in. The dark grey and black blanket of the coal smoke covering the buildings gave the city an otherworldly appearance. People bustled to and fro running errands, men on the way from work with deep frowns between their brows, maids visiting shops to pick up special foodstuffs delicately tiptoed with lifted skirts through the horse manure that littered the street. Richard stood for a moment taking it all in. London. Home. He was finally home.
Even the damp of the evening air was welcome to him.
“Lieutenant?”
Richard turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Blackmore!” He smiled. “It’s so good to see you, old man!”
“And you, Lieutenant Warren. I say you’re looking well in spite of all of it.”
Richard took a step towards his valet and winced.
“May I help you, Lieutenant?”
“It is an injury, Blackmore. I, I’ll discuss it with you later. Please don’t say anything to Mother. I will do my best to downplay it to her. I don’t want her to be worrying.”
“As you wish, Lieutenant.” Blackmore helped Richard into the carriage then hopped up on the box for the drive to Jermyn Street.
*******
“Mrs Warren, I see them coming up the road. They just turned onto it.” Mrs Reilly entered the sitting room and addressed her employer.
Lavinia sat at the small polished wood table near the fireplace having tea. “Wonderful, wonderful, thank you, Mrs Reilly. And were you able to attend to what I asked you about?”
“Yes, Mrs Warren. I have asked Camille to prepare all of Lieutenant Warren’s favourite foods.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs Reilly. There they are. I hear them in the passageway. They’re going back to the mews. Please. Bring some claret. My son might want something to soothe the travel nerves.”
“Yes, Mrs Warren.”
“Mother, Mother! Where are you?”
“I’m here, love. “Lavinia ran from the sitting room and hurried down the corridor to the back area entrance.
“Mother, it’s so good to see you. So good to be home.” Richard embraced Lavinia, then walked with her back to the sitting room.
“And your leg, dear? How is it doing? How do you feel?” Lavinia frowned. “To think it might have healed incorrectly is upsetting. Is it paining you very much?”
Richard knew he would have to tell his mother something about his leg when he walked into the house using a cane. So, he’d written to her that the leg had been fractured and had healed improperly, thus causing the almost imperceptible limp when he walked.
“It’s coming along. Speaking of coming along. Where is Father?”
“He’s on his way from the office, dear. He was under the impression you’d be here tomorrow morning, so he was staying at the bank late as usual. I sent our new little stable boy to fetch him.”
“Wonderful.” Richard sat lengthening his right leg out straight as he lowered his weight to the sofa. “And how is everyone?” He glanced around. The sitting room was still the same. The big overstuffed sofa, table and chairs in front of the fireplace. With shining wood panelling on the walls and plush wool rugs underfoot, it was not a fashionable room. But it was exceedingly warm and inviting. And comfortable. Richard took a long deep breath and exhaled. Finally, he was beginning to relax.
“Fine, Richard. Fine. Are you tired, dear? Shall I ring for Blackmore? Maybe you’d like a nap before dinner? Hmm?”
“If you really wouldn’t mind, Mother. I am a bit tired. The travel, you know. And the hospital I’ve been in for the last two months left some things to be desired, to say the least.”
Lavinia rang the bell for the valet who came into the room.
“Yes, Mrs Warren?” Blackmore bowed at the waist.
“Thank you, Blackmore. Will you assist my son? He fancies a nap. Of course, he’s exhausted and will require help on the stairs. Also, please have Nancy put the water to boil in the fireplace in Richard’s room.”
“I will, Madam. Shall we, Sir?”
“Uh, yes. Let’s, Blackmore.”
“After you, Lieutenant.”
“Oh yes. Right you are, Blackmore. If things were as usual. But, I need help to walk on the stairs.” Richard held Blackmore’s arm on the way to the main stairs at the far end of the corridor, and the two men walked up towards the third floor and Richard’s bedchamber.
“Sir? Would you like a posset perhaps? Something to ease the pain? I can ask Nancy to make one up.”
The Lost Love of a Stunning Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 8