“The servant of Monsieur Creevey, who lives on the other side of the street, said that Milord, le Due de Wellington, left town by the Namur gate half an hour ago,” she reported.
And that was the last news they heard for quite some time. Isobel distracted herself by reading to her father some of Monsieur de Montaigne’s essays and editing the most recent portions of his memoirs. From time to time she thought she heard the distant booming of cannon.
Later in the afternoon, a note was sent around from the Marchioness of Verwood, offering room in her carriage if Isobel wished to go watch from the ramparts, but Isobel could not bear to go. She preferred the solitude of her own drawing room to the constant speculations of the crowds in the streets or on the ramparts, and she wished to wait, alone with memories of Christian until she received news of his safety or, she could hardly bear the thought, of his death.
Day dragged into evening with no news until just before Isobel was going to retire when Marthe came to tell her that Monsieur Creevey’s servant reported that a Colonel Hamilton had called upon her master with the news that a battle had been fought at Quatre Bras, and though he assured him that the British had distinguished themselves, he was unable to say who had won.
Isobel was forced to go to bed in a dreadful state of uncertainty.
The next day, a peculiar quiet settled over the town. No cannon fire was heard, and Isobel, determined to distract herself, spent much of the day at the pianoforte rigorously practicing the breathing lessons that Signor Spontini had taught her, running through scales, and singing all of her favorite songs except one.
During dinner that evening, the duc, who had remained silent and preoccupied most of the time, spoke at last. “Monsieur le Marquis de Juarenais stopped here this afternoon to say that the British are in retreat and the city is overrun with horses, men, and baggage. We must go to the king in Ghent.”
For a moment, Isobel was too depressed by this news to reply, but Marthe, in the process of clearing the soup, came to her aid. “Monseigneur, it is said that there is not a carriage nor a horse to be found in all of the city. They have all been seized for military service. Besides, it has begun to rain most dreadfully. Monsieur Creevey’s servant has just told Marie and me that Bonaparte has cut off communication between Wellington and Blucher and that none of the armies can move now because of the weather. As soon as it clears, however, a great battle will be fought.”
There was nothing to do but wait, and Isobel and her father spent the rest of the evening reading quietly in front of the fire, preoccupied with their own thoughts.
The following day however brought activity. They woke to the sounds of horses, carts, and troops that had entered the city wet and bedraggled the evening before, heading slowly back out. Not knowing what this movement signified, Isobel called Marie to her side. “Run and see which direction the soldiers are heading.” She turned to her father after the girl had sped off to do her bidding. “If they are going toward Antwerp, then indeed, all is lost, for Emily told me she overheard the Duke of Wellington warning Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster to leave for Antwerp the minute things looked bad.”
But an hour later, Marie returned to say that the troops were heading out the rue de Namur toward the army.
“Then we shall stay where we are and await further news,” Isobel stated calmly and firmly. Not having heard from Christian, she had absolutely no intention of leaving the one place where he knew how to find her.
Chapter 34
While the hours dragged endlessly for those in Brussels, time was a blur for Lord Christian and troops on both sides of the conflict. Lord Christian had hurried back to headquarters after he left the ball. There all was confusion, but the duke, retired for two hours’ sleep while his staff changed from their ball dress into their uniforms, conferred again, and were ready to join the duke as he rode to inspect the fighting at Quatre Bras. The rest of the day, Christian spent galloping from one battalion to another with orders designed to steady the troops and keep them holding their ground. By the time this had been accomplished, night had fallen, and Wellington had returned to the Roi d’Espagne inn at Genappe to eat and catch a few more hours of sleep. Christian, however, was only able to make sure that Ajax was given something to eat, blanketed, and allowed to rest before he also returned to the Roi d’Espagne to find what food there was to be had, splash some water on his face, and collapse in a vacant chair for what seemed only a few minutes before he was ordered to ride to Ligny to discover precisely what had happened to the Prussians the day before.
At about half past seven in the morning he returned to Genappe with the news that Blucher had had his horse shot out from under him and had nearly been trampled while his troops, who had been severely mauled by the French, had retreated to Wavre. Christian had barely reported this depressing news when Wellington sent him out again carrying orders to retreat, and then he joined the rest of the troops as, soaked by the rain that came down in torrents, they slogged back toward Brussels.
Unlike, many others who were forced to bivouac in the rain and who had nothing but biscuits or rum stirred into oatmeal for breakfast the next morning, he was at least able to dry himself off in front of the fire at the inn at Waterloo and, once again, having rubbed down and fed Ajax himself, found a corner where he could catch a few hours of sleep.
It hardly seemed like morning when he next was awakened by another of Wellington’s aides and sent to join the duke as he checked the defenses at the chateau at Hougoumont. From there, he was ordered to carry a message to the first battalion of the second brigade of Prince Bernhard de Saxe-Weimar’s Nassauers, ordering them to reinforce the garrison at Hougoumont. By then, the first shots had been fired and the defenders, Colonel McDonnell’s men, were under siege. The rest of the day passed in a fog of smoke and heat from the battle, cries of wounded men and horses, the shouts as charges were launched and men swore and cursed as they struggled to position guns. Christian galloped from one brigade to another carrying messages or bringing back reports, searching for the officer in charge of regiments where one commanding officer after another had been killed. Soon, time, men, animals, ceased to exist—only the mission of locating the next regiment where he was to deliver the message was all that mattered. Every time he returned to the elm where Wellington and his officers were most often to be found, the group had dwindled until it seemed there was hardly anyone left. In all his years in the Peninsula, Christian had never seen such carnage, never witnessed so many hours of unremitting combat, as wave after wave of French threw themselves at the English positions.
When the order to charge came at last and the British troops raced down from their defensive position on Mont Saint-Jean, he was too exhausted to share in their exhilaration, too worn out even to be surprised that he and Ajax were still alive. At the end, he could not even say how, his body aching from hours in the saddle, his mouth caked with dust, his nostrils filled with the smell of gunpowder, his face covered with sweat and grime, he found himself outside the farmhouse at La Belle Alliance as Wellington and Blucher greeted one another, barely able to believe the fact that victory was finally theirs, and overwhelmed by the price at which it had been bought.
Then, and only then, was Christian able to stop and realize that he was still alive and, except for a shallow saber cut across his brow; unhurt. I know that my Redeemer liveth. Despite his name, Lord Christian was not a religious man, but at that moment as tears of gratitude welled in his eyes, he thanked his Maker for allowing him to come through unscathed so that he could at last return to Isobel and tell her that he loved her. He pictured her at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, how many evenings ago, he could not even be sure. How pure her voice had been, how sad her eyes as they had said good-bye. He must get back to her now that the French were finally routed. The French—Auguste! The sadness in Isobel’s eyes had been not only for him, but for her brother and every other soldier who had been prepared to sacrifice his life for his country.
And now
, as exhausted as he was, Christian knew he had to find out what had become of Auguste. Outside of her father, Auguste was the only family that Isobel had, and Auguste would have had no way to get word to her of what had happened to him. For all that Christian knew, Auguste had no idea that his sister was even in Brussels.
Christian turned Ajax around and in the fading twilight surveyed the field before him. Smoke from a few bivouac fires rose to mingle with smoke from burning gun carriages and the last final cannonades. Where in this vast wasteland was Auguste de Montargis and how was he to find him? He is with Ney? he remembered asking that day in the park that seemed years ago. She had nodded. Yes, Auguste had been in the cavalry, she had said. Surely he would have been an officer. A cavalry officer under Ney named Auguste de Montargis. It was not an impossible task, but how was he to begin?
A band of French prisoners was led past him as Christian puzzled over this dilemma. “Wait one moment.” He jumped down and led Ajax over to the man in charge of the prisoners. “Please, I am looking for an important French officer; let me speak with these men.”
“Ya-t-il quelqu’un id qui connait un officier de cuiraisseurs sous Marechal Ney qui s’appelle Auguste de Montargis?”
No one answered. Christian cursed under his breath. It was hopeless. Why had he been crazy enough to think it would possibly work?
“Monsieur.” A grimy-faced man wearing the barely distinguishable uniform of a cavalry officer raised his head. “J’etais avec Ney. Je ne connais pas ce monsieur, mais je puis vous conduire a mon regiment.”
“Very well, my man, if you can show me where you were fighting under Ney, I shall take it from there.” Christian turned to the soldier in charge of the prisoners. “I am taking this man with me.”
“Very good, sir.”
Christian helped the Frenchman, who had suffered a flesh wound in the arm, onto Ajax and swung up behind him. “Now, show me where you saw Marshal Ney last.”
The man pointed in the direction of La Haye Sainte and they rode off, picking their way as carefully as they could among the dead and the wounded.
At last they reached La Haye Sainte, where heaps of men, wearing the uniform of his guide, lay on the ground. His guide descended and, moving carefully among the dying, administered what little water that was left in the flask Christian had strapped to his saddle and questioned them carefully. At last he came upon a soldier with a bloody bandage formed of a cavalryman’s sash around his forehead, who nodded weakly and pointed to a spot some ways away. Christian hurried over and helped to lift him onto Ajax and they made their way to a clump of men and horses. There, the wounded soldier pointed at a young officer collapsed against a dead horse, his foot thrown out at an awkward angle.
Christian carefully picked his way over to the man, whose dark, curly hair was matted with sweat, but whose aristocratic features were vaguely reminiscent of Isobel’s. “Auguste,” he whispered urgently. “Auguste de Montargis?”
The young man’s eyelids fluttered and his unfocused gaze fell on Christian.
“Auguste?”
The young man frowned in concentration and tried to rise, but fell back with a groan.
“You are Auguste de Montargis?”
“The young man nodded slowly. “Oui, monsieur.”
“I am a friend of your sister’s. I have come to take you to her. Do you understand?”
“Isobel?” Alert now, Auguste regarded him in astonishment.
“Yes, but I am afraid it will be rather uncomfortable. Your leg.. .”
“Oui. I think it is broken, but except for that, and for this”—he raised a hand to the gash in his forehead—”I am unhurt, grace a Dieu.”
Christian bent to put one of Auguste’s arms around his shoulder and waved to his guide to take the other. With relatively little jostling, they contrived to lay Auguste over the saddle, next to his fellow soldier. “A bit rough and ready, I am afraid, but I believe it is better than riding astride.”
Auguste, who was clenching his jaw against the pain, nodded feebly.
Christian grabbed Ajax’s bridle, and turned to his guide. “Au revoir, monsieur, merci, et bonne chance.”
The soldier waved, “Merci, monsieur,” and headed off in the direction of his retreating army.
Then began the long, slow process of returning to Brussels along a road choked with troops, carts full of wounded, and conveyances of every description. Passing a wagonload of wounded French soldiers, Christian gently lifted his other charge onto it, shifted Auguste forward on Ajax’s shoulders, and climbed up behind him. Once mounted on Ajax, he was able to make better time, but still it was nearly morning by the time they reached the house in the rue du Musee.
Without a thought for the sleeping neighbors, Christian banged on the door and waited. He was forced to pound on it several times before Marthe, a candle in her hand, her cap askew, opened the door. “Mon Dieu! C’est le milord Anglais.” Grabbing the shawl that had slipped from her shoulders, she opened the door further. “C’est Auguste!” She threw the door wide. “Oh, monsieur, you are the Savior Himself. Come in, come in.”
Christian secured Ajax to a post, though by then the horse, who was as exhausted as his master, was unlikely to go anywhere, and slid the unconscious Auguste onto his shoulder.
Marthe pointed to the stairs. “This way, monsieur, there is an unused bedchamber at the back of the house. I shall throw off the dust covers.”
They had just begun to mount the stairs when another candle appeared in the gloom. “Marthe? Whatever is amiss?” Isobel appeared, her green sarcenet pelisse thrown hastily over her nightrobe. Her eyes widened as she recognized their nocturnal visitor. “Mon Dieu,” she gasped as tears welled into her eyes. “You are alive, you are here ...”
“And he has brought Monsieur Auguste, who is in need of assistance.” Marthe gently set her mistress to one side as Christian and his burden reached the top of the stairs. “I am going to put him in the empty bedchamber but now you may do that and I shall warm some water, find some sheets for bandages, and get some brandy.”
Still too dazed to think, Isobel lighted the way to the bedchamber, threw off the covers, and helped slide Auguste onto the bed. He groaned faintly, opened his eyes, blinking in the light of the candle. “Isobel? Am I dreaming? I was there on the battlefield. I thought I would die out there, but then an angel, an officer, an Englishman appeared. I must be dreaming. Ce n‘est pas possible. “ He ran a weary hand over his brow.
Isobel sank to her knees, the tears spilling overeat last, and took his other hand in hers. “No, Auguste, it is true. And this officer, Milord Christian Hatherleigh, did indeed bring you back to us.” She looked down at her brother, whose eyes had closed. “He has fainted again.” Gently she stroked his cheek, then rose and held out her hands to Christian. “How can I ever thank you, my lord?”
He covered her hands with his for a moment, feasting his eyes on her face, then gently lifted them to his lips. “To see you again is more than I could have ever hoped.”
She pulled one hand away and reached up to examine the saber cut. “You are hurt.”
“ 'Tis the merest scratch.”
“But if it had been deeper, you might have—” She broke off and buried her head in his chest, her shoulders shaking.
He pulled her close, reveling in her softness, her warmth, the scent of rose water in her hair, which was soft as silk against his cheek. He was alive, he was with her. Life had never felt so complete, and he wanted it to stay like this forever.
Christian had stood motionless for so long that Isobel pulled away to look anxiously up at him. “Are you feeling all right, my lord?”
“Never better, but...”
“But?” Her eyes widened with concern.
“Before I left, at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, I asked you if you would do something for me, do you remember?”
“I remember every minute of that evening. You asked if I would sing for you.”
“Yes I did, but I wan
ted to ask you something else.”
“What? Anything.” She could not bear the worry she saw in his eyes. Having lived through this terrible battle, what else could he possibly have to fear?
“You say that, but.. .” He had said it so many times in his mind, why was it so difficult now? The truth was that he was afraid, more afraid than he had been of the cannon fire, the death, and the destruction that had surrounded him all day. What if she did not care? How could he face life without her?
Isobel reached up to cradle his face in her hands. “There is nothing you can ask that I would not want to give you. My life is yours.”
“It is not your life I want, but your love. I love you so, Isobel.” His voice, already hoarse with emotion, broke.
She smiled at him tenderly. “And I love you.”
Christian thought he had never seen a woman look more beautiful. He crushed her to him, his lips seeking hers, gently at first, as he traced them with his own, and then passionately as her mouth opened beneath his and he felt the warmth and softness of her skin under his hands as he traced the slender column of her neck.
The creak of the floor behind them brought them back to reality as Marthe reappeared with bandages, brandy, and a basin of water. Her wrinkled old face lighted up as the two fell guiltily apart. “Eh bien, mes enfants, c’est bien.” She pulled a chair to the head of the bed, and after surveying her patient, gently began washing Auguste’s face. “Let him rest now. In the morning we shall see if we can find a surgeon to set the leg. In the meantime, what my poor Auguste needs most is rest.”
There was another creak of the floorboards and the duc, clutching a brocade robe around his frail frame, appeared in the doorway. Isobel and Christian fell back, but he had eyes only for the figure on the bed. “Mon fils,” he whispered so low that Isobel was not even sure she had heard him.
Slowly he made his way to the bed and sank into the chair beside the bed that Marthe had just vacated. Tentatively he stretched out one thin, blue-veined hand to brush the dark curls off his son’s forehead. A tear ran slowly down his gaunt cheek. For some time he sat there, so immobile that Isobel could not be sure he was even breathing. At last he rose. “My son is alive. For that I thank le ban Dieu, but he is still a traitor. When he wakes I will not see him.”
My Lady Nightingale Page 25