Major Lord David

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  Swiftly David tore off his coat and forced Kit’s arms into it, leaving it loose and unbuttoned about him. The boy was so cold he had to be in shock, but he had a pulse. The coat might help-Kit’s own was in tatters-and David knew that high officers received closer attention than the rank and file. He ripped a blanket from a fallen pack and wrapped that around Kit as well, then propped him upright in the saddle. Hastily he tied Kit’s boots to the stirrups with his own belt, and, flattening Kit against Incendio’s mane, loosely tethered his hands about the horse’s neck.

  “Well, you won’t fall off,” David said grimly. Kit mumbled indistinctly. David had seen no blood on the boy, but he had to have broken bones or internal damage of an extensive nature to be so limp and cold.

  Behind them and to the left, David saw the French formation march right up to the crest of the ridge, right to a wall of corpses. At some word down the line-some order that David could not hear-the Guards hiding there behind the far bank leapt to their feet and unleashed a barrage of fire into the column of French. David saw the French surprise and dismay, not in their faces but in their actions. Some still attempted to move forward, some halted to return fire, and some were so startled and staggered they were attempting to turn, even in the close formation.

  “La Garde recule!” David yelled, thinking to add to their confusion. “La Garde recule!” The Guard retreats! As the cry was picked up and repeated in panic, David slapped Incendio’s flank hard, sending the horse and Kit galloping toward the rear of the line. I hope, Kit Caswell, he thought, you might make her some amends.

  As well as he could then, David ran, down into the road and across it. Sir John Colborne’s 52nd regiment stood there in column, firing upon the French. As David moved behind them, he saw Wellington approach on horseback along the ridge, once again foolishly-but magnificently, inspiringly-exposing himself to enemy fire.

  “Go on!” Wellington urged Colborne. “Go on! They won’t stand!” And the 52nd advanced downhill, astonishingly swinging into a parade-ground-perfect line formation, to close like a hinge upon the French west flank. David had never seen a maneuver of its like. Though devastating to the inflexibly tight French column, the movement also exposed the 52”d in an uncommon way. They would take high casualties. In the muck and growing darkness, David hurried to alert the German companies behind Hougoumont not to fire mistakenly into the backs of the 52nd.

  His legs felt heavy; they did not wish to advance him. He was exhausted, wearied to numbness. Without Incendio, it was difficult to get about. And in outfitting Kit Caswell, he had abandoned his sword. He had not used it all day-he suspected he would scarcely have had strength to raise it-but it might have served as support in the mud. Now, reduced to his shirtsleeves, he was chilled, though the battleground had earlier felt like an oven. He found a sodden blanket, more mud than wool, and slung it about his shoulders. When he reached an officer of Halkett’s Hanoverian brigade, the man looked upon him in astonishment but recognized his face. By a combination of hand gestures and the simplest of vocabulary, David tried to convey that a line of British infantry now stood between their brigade and the French guard. The lieutenant seemed to understand, and indicated that in any advance his forces would be moving south to retake the woods beyond Hougoumont.

  David strode on, down to the KGL brigade, to quickly communicate the same. But as he left them, heading for the sunken lane behind Hougoumont, something exploded, seemingly straight up from the ground. David felt a glance, as though of an impact, yet his arms and legs were still intact. As he looked down he could see them, and his mud-spattered shirt, still white in the dusk. A Hanoverian trooper had trailed him for some reason and now came to his side, grasping his arm and gesticulating earnestly. The man was saying something to him, something in incomprehensibly mangled German and English. David thought bemusedly that theirs was certainly a mad and motley army-expected to move in concert, when they could not even understand one another! His mind seemed unusually slow. He recognized the word granate, repeated several times. But no one used grenades anymore. A shell, perhaps. Or did the fool mistake him for a French Grenadier? Then, schlecht. Bad. Yes, this was all very bad. But why the devil had he been stopped?

  Impatiently he shook off the German’s hand and started to walk. There was something dreamlike about the smoldering ruins of Hougoumont before him, the thick dark smoke, the looming hedge, the last few rays of light from the fading sun reflecting eerily in the broken clouds. When he reached the sunken road, he abruptly, unexpectedly, fell to his knees, and looked down at the soft mud with an astonished laugh. What a fine commander he was-to be incapable of standing upright at the end of the day!

  The French boy, “Billie,” his little blue coat still too clearly distinguishable in the dusk, was creeping toward him along the sunken path.

  “You were to wait for me!” David shouted in French. His voice cracked, from hours of yelling, and despite his alarm the thought struck him as hilarious. For some inexplicable reason he was laughing. “This way is dangerous! Go back!” The boy came on, though David was certain he had shouted. He believed he had heard himself shout. But something-a musket ball-struck his left shoulder. The wrong direction … from the King’s own German legion, begad! These many nervous recruits … But with the sharp sting, all else blanked.

  Number 16, St. James’s Square, the elegant residence of Mr. and Mrs. Boehm, was brightly lit and beautifully decorated for the night’s assembly. The evening had been anticipated as the most brilliant of the waning season. Yet the glittering company outshone the surroundings. Many distinguished personages, including the Prince Regent and his brother, the Duke of York, were to attend.

  Since the Richmond picnic, Billie and Hayden had ventured out together only infrequently-to a few dinner parties, two dances, another musicale-but gossip had been rife nonetheless. Hayden was always a much sought after, most elusive guest. That he should now trouble to attend events, and with a fiancee, was something to be noted with excitement.

  Billie entered the Boehms’ on Hayden’s arm. This dance was by far the largest event they had attended together. She felt the weight of attention, the many gazes curious and assessing. She knew that Hayden was much studied and emulated and that he was invariably discussed, whereas she had no wish to be the same.

  “You tire of this, my dear,” he observed softly. He was looking to the crowd as he spoke.

  “‘Tis all most … invigorating, I know, my lord. And I am truly grateful….” As his steady gaze turned to hers, she stopped and said frankly, “I find this trickery wearing. The deception.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “You would.”

  She thought she heard the slightest emphasis on the you. Billie looked at him sharply. “It does not trouble you?”

  “Not unduly, Miss Caswell. Deception is the oil of society, after all. Without it, we should all sink.” And as though to illustrate the truth of the remark, he turned to compliment a lady who had approached him, a lady who seemed overly willing to believe Hayden’s flattery.

  But Billie knew that in one way, perhaps the most important way, Hayden did not deceive. For everyone knew what he was. However aloof and enigmatic he might seem at times, he was always himself, whereas she-she had not even been honest with the man she loved.

  The June evening was hot and still. In an effort to catch the faintest of breezes, the Boehms had opened the windows throughout their house. Billie feared that once the company began to dance she might well expire, though she wore the thinnest of cool lawn gowns. Her sense of oppression had little to do with the heat. She had not been truthful with Hayden. She desperately wished to be free again. To be home and at liberty, to walk and ride for miles, or to sneak off to Braughton, to dream of David …

  Attempting to school her features, she turned to the couple behind them. Her aunt Ephie had enjoyed the past two weeks. Hayden’s access to the cream of the ton was unsurpassed, and Ephie had taken delighted advantage of the opportunity to visit the most exclusive
of salons and parties. Hayden’s friend Lord Knowles, at present escorting Ephie, often accompanied them as well, to ensure that neither lady should ever lack a turn on the dance floor, as Hayden’s aversion to the pastime was quite renowned. Though Lord Knowles tended to talk a great deal, Billie found him a good-natured and attentive partner.

  She spotted simpering May Sanders with Lord Grenby ahead on the stairs. The two had announced their engagement on the very day the Times had carried Hayden’s spurious notice. As Billie caught Grenby’s eye, she decided that he no longer looked sheepish. Grenby must think her as inconstant as he was. But he needn’t look so very superior.

  She hoped that she and Hayden would soon drop their sham betrothal, as it had served its purpose. Ronald Dumont had ceased to make a nuisance of himself. Indeed, she had heard he was off visiting his properties in Ireland. And as for Kit’s debts-upon his return, Kit would certainly still owe. But word had come to Billie’s ears that Hayden had won many of Kit’s IOUs from Dumont, before that gentleman’s departure. Billie supposed it marginally more comfortable to be outrageously in debt to one’s neighbor than to a blackguard like Dumont. Still, gentlemen were expected to honor their debts, lest they fail to be considered gentlemen.

  Kit had written once from Brussels, a letter so entirely full of his own excitement and concerns that Billie wondered at herself for having wished to hear from him at all. Still, she had sent him a reply. By contrast, she had let ten days lapse before settling upon a suitable response to Lord David-a rudely unacceptable delay with any correspondent, but most particularly with the man one loved.

  “A bit close, is it not?” Hayden asked her, perhaps noticing her frown.

  Billie nodded. Hayden’s friend, Lord Demarest, and Demarest’s fiancee, Lady Constance, had joined their party and were eagerly exchanging news with Knowles. There had been word yesterday of battles south of Brussels. Bonaparte had bested the Prussians, and British residents in the city prepared to remove to Antwerp-to face a possible siege.

  “This cannot all be happening again,” Billie said, nervously working her fingers together in their soft kid gloves.

  “Oh, it will all come right,” Hayden told her.

  “Why should you believe that?”

  “Because David said so,” he replied easily. Again Billie felt that sharp loss; she looked down to examine her gloves. “Time and numbers are against Bonaparte,” Hayden continued. “He cannot fight us all. Eventually he must sue for peace”

  “Only after many more have died.”

  Hayden did not respond. They were moving on past the stairs and into the spacious ballroom with the others. Billie could hear Mrs. Boehm, in her thickly Russian accent, addressing the Prince Regent, who had attended an earlier dinner. Ahead of them and to the side, everyone was bowing low or sweeping to the floor in a curtsy. Without even seeing the Regent, Billie followed suit. As the orchestra struck up the opening bars for a quadrille, Hayden tilted his head to her.

  “I think I might suffer this one dance, my dear,” he said, extending a gloved hand, “if you would honor me. It avoids that exhausting skippin’ about”

  She smiled and took his hand. But they had scarcely taken their place in a set with Demarest and Lady Constance when a hubbub arose from the street below. Billie thought the Corn Law rioters must once again have invaded the West End. But these cries were different; the crowd was elated, not angry. As the music stopped, the Boehms’ guests rushed to the wide windows, which, standing open, had carried all the noise from the square. Billie could just catch sight of a speedy post chaise escorted by a running, cheering throng. Two poles, with what looked like flags and gilded statues at their ends, poked from the carriage windows.

  “What are those?” Billie asked Hayden. He stood next to her, but, as he was at least half a foot taller, he had a much better view.

  “Eagles,” he said. “From Bonaparte’s army.” His voice was strangely flat. Strangely, she thought, because all those pressing about them were so eager. The crowd in the street was jubilant.

  A mussed and dusty figure tumbled out of the carriage, pulling the two “eagles” awkwardly along with him. Billie lost sight of him; the crowd appeared to part only reluctantly as he forged a path to the Boehms’ front steps. There was a great commotion from the hall, on the stairs. Within seconds the waiting company had turned expectantly from the windows, to observe a handsome but extremely untidy young officer enter the ballroom.

  “Percy,” Hayden said softly. He grasped Billie’s arm and drew her closer to the visitor. “Percy” had dropped the poles before the Regent and knelt now upon one knee.

  “Victory, sir! Victory!”

  Billie drew a sharp breath. The Prince Regent, after one second’s relieved smile, gravely took some papers from Percy’s hand and retired without a word to a side room to read them. While everyone else seemed struck immobile, Hayden moved quickly to Percy’s side. Billie watched Hayden clap him on the shoulder and pump his hand. The younger man looked dazed. Others gathered around the messenger even as Hayden turned away.

  “That’s Henry Percy,” Knowles whispered in her ear. “ADC to Wellington. Hayden knows him.”

  Hayden knew everyone. Billie watched his face as he returned to them.

  “A victory south of Brussels, at Waterloo,” he said. “Bonaparte bested and tearing back to France. And we must be off ahead of this lot.” He was already steering Billie back through the now wildly exuberant crowd. “Thanks be, I had my carriage wait.”

  “But where are we off to, Hayden?” Demarest asked. “The Horse Guards?”

  Hayden nodded sharply.

  Billie thought she should be happy. Surely she should be happy. This was wonderful, astonishing news. But as they raced ahead of the other guests, down the stairs and out into the middle of the street, she felt only urgency-and dread.

  “Why do we rush to the Horse Guards?” she asked.

  “For the list,” Demarest told her. “The first list of casualties.”

  Hayden’s luxurious carriage easily held the six of them, but the air seemed as close and cloying as that in the Boehms’ ballroom. Billie leaned her head back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She wished Hayden would not look so grim. Ephie was holding her hand. The trees in St. James’s park blurred as the carriage sped past. When it stopped, Hayden leapt out, then checked-and turned to help Billie down. Billie had never seen him so quick and impatient. Whereas she-she felt numb.

  “Come,” Ephie said, taking her elbow. “We are some of the first here.”

  Indeed, they did not have to struggle to gain admittance. When Billie and Ephie passed the door, Hayden was already reading through pages. But he was still frowning. When he looked up and caught her gaze, she thought the frown deepened.

  She forced herself to his side. Lord Demarest and Lord Knowles and the two other women were close behind herlike a wall, Billie thought, to help keep her upright.

  Hayden handed her the list. “There is some mystery here,” he said, pointing with a long forefinger at the list.

  Billie’s gaze fell to read: Caswell, Christopher. Major, First Division, Guards/Coldstream. Wounded.

  “But this is wrong,” she said.

  “Yes. But it would seem your brother is still with us” Hayden took the list from her hands and perused it again before passing it on to Demarest and Knowles. “Miss Billie, there is no mention of David.”

  “Yes, I-yes, I saw.”

  “Not on the list as wounded or dead. Not on the list. And Percy knew nothing.”

  Around them, ladies were swooning, weeping. Lord Demarest was comforting Lady Constance, whose cousin, a cavalry officer, had been wounded. Not on the list. Should they believe, then, that David was well? She looked over Knowles’ shoulder, to scan the many, many names-hundreds and hundreds of names. Athington-Charis’ brother-dead? No, wounded. And there were too many other names. Someone beside her said most of Wellington’s staff had been wounded or killed-all young, proud officers, s
ome of whom Billie had just met this spring, gone, lost. And Kit wounded-how badly? She was still staring at the list, looking for a name she did not wish to find.

  Lord Knowles was talking to Lady Constance, not with his usual easy flow of chatter but in a warm and coaxing manner. “This means nothing,” he said reassuringly. Constance’s eyes were red. “There is hope. You must rally. What are we, if not steadfast? We have certainly taken our blows. Why, you must know Demarest here is the last of his line. And George Gillen’s two brothers went at Badajoz. I hardly knew my pater, lost at Aboukir Bay back in ninety-eight. You must have heard Percy’s cry-“Victory!” Ah, what victory means to us all! ‘Tis what has been taken from us in the winning that hurts so. Such decades of war! But think of all we have preserved. For coming years of peace! Your cousin will be well, Lady Cee. He might dance at your wedding!”

  Billie had not realized she was standing with her eyes closed, listening, until she opened them in wonder. Lady Constance had stopped crying. And Billie looked to Knowles.

  “I thank you, my lord,” she told him. “I thank you most sincerely.” Knowles looked surprised and pleased as he turned to her. “Without your aid,” she admitted, “I fear I might have embarrassed myself.”

  “Never, Miss Caswell,” he said gallantly. “And now I think-” He craned his neck to catch sight of Hayden returning to them. “Yes, I think we shall be off. Hayden’s yacht is at Gravesend. Should cross within a day-”

  “There is no word,” Hayden said, interrupting him. He looked directly at Billie. “No word, good or bad. Do you understand me? This is a preliminary list. There were tens of thousands there, at Waterloo. It is a victory, but a disaster all the same. I shall leave before midnight. And, Knowles”-he looked to his friend-“will you venture over with me? Your French is passable.”

  Knowles beamed. “Certainly!”