She jumped as there was a soft scratching sound against the door, and realised that the maid Violette had arranged for her had come to ready her for bed.
Belle cast a glance at the massive four-poster with its scarlet drapes, and blanched, but bid the maid enter.
She was a small, dark young woman of perhaps eighteen, neat as pin with a perfectly starched white apron, a sweet face and large brown eyes. “Good evening, m’lady,” she said, bobbing a curtsey, the excitement in her eyes very clear. “If it pleases you, Mrs Russell asked me to attend you until you make arrangements for your own lady’s maid.”
Belle looked at the girl and her eager, shining face, and realised she might be saved the horror of some terrifyingly fashionable and snooty dresser as she might have feared. “Have you done this job before ... miss?”
“Oh, Mary if you please, m’lady,” she said, blushing and looking anxious. “Well, I’ve a fair hand for dressing hair, and you won’t find a neater stitch than mine anywhere around Longwold, but ... n-no, I haven’t done it afore,” she admitted as her voice dropped away, clearly thinking Belle would want someone with experience, which was the absolute last thing she desired.
“Well, thank heavens for that,” she replied with a smile as Mary looked perfectly bewildered. “As I have never been a marchioness before, and I have no idea how to go about it. Do you think we might perhaps muddle through together?”
After a brief pause Mary beamed at her, and Belle felt certain she had done the right thing. “You can rely on me, m’lady.”
So it was that Mary helped Belle prepare for her wedding night, looking almost as nervous as Belle herself, until finally, she left her new mistress alone.
Belle sat on the edge of the huge and frankly intimidating bed, perched like a swallow about to take flight. Her hair was brushed and loose about her shoulders, thick blonde waves shimmering in the candlelight. She wore her best nightgown, of simple white cotton, which made her feel a foolish sight in the midst of such splendour. Belle comforted herself with the thought that she must look exactly what she was, a nervous virginal bride on her wedding night. After all, surely that was what her husband would expect and want from her? Yet as the hours ticked by and it grew increasingly late, Belle began to wonder exactly what her new husband did want, as it clearly wasn’t her.
Chapter 17
“Wherein a winter’s night is cold indeed.”
Once he’d escaped the hell of the wedding breakfast, Edward hurried to the stable and paced with ill-concealed impatience as his horse was saddled. What the staff must think of him, running away from his own wedding celebrations, he could hardly imagine. Nothing complimentary to either him or his bride he imagined. One fool actually stepped up to doff his hat and wish him happy before swallowing his words at the look on Edward’s face and scurrying away.
Damn them. Damn them all. Forever judging him, remembering who he had been and what he’d been like and all their hopes for what he would make of Longwold. Sooner or later, they would realise the Marquess of Winterbourne had died in the fields surrounding Waterloo, and the man who had returned was a wraith. He was something neither living nor dead, fit for neither world. He found no joy in living yet he felt no desire to die, not after having fought so hard to survive, but to what end? There was no place that could be called home.
The Dials had been a temporary refuge, but he’d known that he didn’t belong, even through the fog that had held his memories at ransom. But even his childhood home no longer fit him. Everywhere that had once been familiar and reassuring seemed awkward now, unfamiliar, like the memory of a place visited once as a child and seen again through the eyes of an adult. Everything he had once loved and longed to return to was foreign to him. It was almost as if Longwold hadn’t existed to him before; it was a place he had read about in a book, that he had imagined in his mind’s eye, and now the reality didn’t match his expectations. Even the vast castle seemed smaller than he’d expected, and strangely confining, his title a noose around his neck, trapping him and holding him in place.
And now he had a wife, too.
The weight of it, of what had once been familiar, of everything that was expected - it bore down on him, crushing him and pushing at his chest until he couldn’t breathe. The terrifying sense of panic was stealing up on him again, closing cold hands around his throat, and he had to force his hands to his sides to restrain himself from snatching at his cravat and flinging the wretched thing in the dirt.
Once the horse was saddled, he vaulted up without a word and rode hard, finding the track that only he knew into the very heart of the forest that surrounded the castle.
Finding the familiar spot at last, he dismounted, tethered the horse, and jumped down into the small, muddy hole in the ground, careless of his fine clothes.
It was foolish, he knew that.
But nonetheless he had taken the spade a careless gardener had left in the grounds, found a place far from any well-trod paths, and dug this deep hole in the dirt. It was a pitiful kind of secret for the half alive, half dead man who’d returned and was frightened of the world at large. It was just big enough for a man his size to huddle in and pretend everything beyond the mud was something he didn’t have to face. It was pathetic, he knew it, and yet he couldn’t bear not to come.
It was freezing cold and damp and bloody uncomfortable after awhile with his legs bent under his chin, but that was alright. It was how it should be. He had lost so many in the war, comrades and friends. Men he’d loved like brothers, men he’d hated but would trust his life to, men for whom he would’ve died. They rotted now in the freezing mud, either back in England or in some forgotten field in France.
Somehow, he felt a little less of the burden of their guilt out here, in the dirt and the cold. Why, after all, should he have so much when they were nought but bones? He closed his eyes, willing the images to stay away, but he was on the battlefield once more.
They’d been grievously outnumbered, and Edward had been prepared to die. He’d expected to. For his part in the battle, he’d been in company with twelve thousand men, turning out at two in the morning and marching through the night from the great city of Brussels. Twenty miles later, tired and dusty and parched on an uncommonly hot day, they had faced forty thousand French opposing them, heavily sheltered in thick woodland. They’d barely had the chance to draw breath before the bastards were on them. The numbers of French cavalry far exceeded that of the British, and Edward had watched in despair as his comrades were cut down despite their heroic efforts, leaving the remaining infantry open to attack. Somehow, he still did not know how, he’d survived the cull. Horse and rider as one, golden, defying blades and bullets and canon fire, until the last.
Until then, he’d been untouchable, blessed, cursed to survive.
Three times, the French cavalry charged the British lines, killing with impunity until they were forced to form squares of battalions. Yet the men never wavered, and Edward thought he had never seen such courage and gallantry. Of the fine brigade who had entered the field that day, by nightfall they could barely scrape together a single battalion, and that not exceeding four hundred men.
Thousands upon thousands lay dead or dying, and as a deal of the action had taken place in corn fields along a huge swathe of countryside, many hundreds died from lack of assistance, being unable to crawl away and find help. Their cries had echoed through the night, pleading for help, for their mothers ... for death. The sound of it echoed still in his ears. Edward thought he would never again be able to look upon a field of corn and see anything but a river of blood.
He put his head in his hands, clutching at his hair and shivering, though he felt nothing of the cold, only the horror of it, chilling his blood and his bones and his very soul. Suddenly, he pitied his wife. The fool thought herself safe from harm now, yet this was what poor Miss Holbrook had married, some creature bathed in blood, neither living nor dead, and knowing not where he belonged.
***
Belle dozed on the great four-poster, too full of misery to actually crawl beneath the covers, though the fire in the hearth had long since died, and the room grew colder by the moment. She had seen the snow start to fall several hours ago, big soft flakes, covering the countryside like a thick winter fleece. A soft knock at the door caught her attention, though, and she jolted awake.
Surely not now?
Pulling on a dressing gown, she scurried to the door and pulled it open just a crack, to see her husband’s valet, the man he’d referred to as Charles. Blinking in surprise, she held her wrap a little tighter.
“May I help you?”
The fellow took off his hat with a hasty hand and looked awkward, clearing his throat. He had the beginnings of what looked like a tremendous black eye that she felt certain was swelling as he spoke. “Er, actually yes. Least ways, I’m hopin’ ye might ‘cause I’m buggered ... ‘scuse my French, m’lady, but I don’t know what t’ do with the fellow.”
It took Belle a moment to comprehend what the man was saying, but finally it dawned on her. “You are having difficulties ... with the marquess?” she guessed, wondering what on God’s green earth the man expected her to do about it?
“That’s about size of it, alright,” the funny, wiry fellow agreed, twisting his hat around in his hands. “Thing is, ‘e won’t budge, and the snow’s fallin’, an’ ‘im soaked to the bone already ...”
“Do you mean to say he’s outside, in this weather?” Belle demanded in alarm.
“Been outside best part o’ the day, by my reckonin’,” the fellow agreed. “Been drinkin’, too, and, normally speakin’, I can handle that, but ‘e won’t ‘ave it tonight, m’lady. I’ve been reasonable, an’ I’ve pleaded, and I’ve tried punching him in the face.”
Belle gasped in alarm.
“Aye, well, ye can see where that got me!” the fellow retorted, apparently finding nothing amiss in punching his employer, who happened to be a peer of the realm. “So, the truth is, I’m desperate, an’ ... well, I wondered if you might talk ‘im down, like?”
Belle stared at him in astonishment.
“Me?”
The idea that this strange man was relying on her to do anything with Lord Winterbourne was laughable. Did he know nothing of his master? “But surely one of the men, or several ...” she began as Charlie shook his head back and forth, slow like a pendulum, his face solemn.
“No. Won’t fadge,” he said, looking grim. “The fellow’s ripe for a fight, he’ll likely break bones, and we can’t afford to lose any of the staff.”
“No, I should think not!” Belle exclaimed, alarmed beyond anything, now, at the idea of it. “W-well,” she stammered, still having no idea what exactly the man expected of her. “Give me a moment to put on a coat and some boots.
Belle shut the door and scurried about the unfamiliar room, trying to find the things she needed in the light of her one remaining candle. Her heart was thudding with apprehension and she felt quite sick, but she’d never been one to shirk her responsibilities, and, well ... her husband was her responsibility now. May God help her.
By the time they reached the stables Belle was shivering hard. Her pelisse was worn and thin, and as only her nightdress and wrap lay beneath the layers, she was frozen through in moments. The snow leaked into her boots and froze her toes, and the very idea that she was about to try and reason with her angry husband - her angry, drunk husband - was more than enough to chase any lingering warmth from her bones.
“‘E’s ‘ere somewhere, the daft bugger,” Charlie grumbled, though the affection behind the words was clear enough. “Over ‘ere,” he called, after he’d searched a few of the stalls. Belle ran over to where Charlie was and looked into an empty stall to see her husband, huddled in the corner on the freezing stone floor. His jacket was gone, his remaining clothes filthy and covered in mud and his cravat discarded altogether, thrown into a steaming pile of manure.
An empty bottle lay at his feet.
“Good heavens!” she cried, appalled and shocked at the sight of the powerful man crumpled in a heap. Her fear disappeared in the face of a creature she could only pity, and she ran forward and put a hand on his arm.
“Lord Winterbourne,” she said, shaking his arm and willing him to wake.
He groaned, turning his head away.
“Lord Winterbourne!” she said again, her voice sharper now. “My lord!”
He blinked at that, his eyes bleary and unfocused. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he mumbled, his voice slurred and heavy, leaning his head back against the wall. “Go ‘way. Don’t want a creature ...” He shook his head, and Belle tried hard not to feel affronted at being spoken about in such a way. “Don’t want ...” His words trailed off and she only grab snatched of them. “More dead than alive ...”
She gasped and wondered what exactly the man thought of her if he could speak so, if the idea of marrying her had reduced him to ... to this.
“It ain’t you ‘e speaks of, m’lady,” Charlie mumbled, shaking his head and looking at the marquess who had fallen asleep again with pity in his eyes. “T’is ‘imself.”
“What?” Belle looked up at him, wanting desperately to understand this unhappy man, to help him in some way.
Charlie shrugged. “T’is the war,” he said, with a sorrowful smile. “The things we saw that day, no man should see. Bad enough to be one o’ thousands, followin’ orders, for king and country. Worse to be the poor devil sending the men to their deaths, and then surviving ye’self, against all odds.” Charlie shook his head, thrusting his hands into his pockets, the freezing air clouding around his face as he spoke. “Blood on ‘is hands, see. All ‘is friends and comrades, all dead, and many of ‘em at ‘is command. That’s what ‘e thinks, anyhow. Eddie tried so damned ‘ard t’ save ‘em, and when ‘e couldn’t, he tried t’ get ‘imself killed beside ‘em. Stuff ‘e did would make ye ‘air curl. But nothin’ touched him. Not until that last shell, least ways, then no one was surprised when ‘e were gone. Everyone reckoned ‘e was dead.”
“Except you,” Belle whispered, realising now the strength of the bond that lay between these two very different men.
Charlie shrugged again, and everything seemed strangely silent. A horse stamped, shifting in the comfort of its stall, and then ... peace. The snow fell over everything in perfect, pristine flakes. It seemed to be purifying everything it touched, wiping away sins, covering past mistakes, forgiving everything ugly in the world.
If only it were that simple.
“Lord Winterbourne is the bravest man I’ve ever known, m’lady,” he said after a while. “Saved my life a time or two, I can tell ye. But e’s afraid of living, afraid to feel anythin’. Reckons ‘e don’t deserve it neither, if I know anything.”
“The poor man,” Belle whispered.
Charlie nodded and then gave her a rueful grin. “Aye, ye say that now, but it don’t stop ‘im bein’ a right devil to deal with. He’ll try an’ drive ye off. He’ll swear and cuss and make ye wild, and it’ll take a stubborn and hard-headed woman to get through to ‘im. If ye quit on ‘im, t’ will only things worse. P’raps you might not think it worth the effort? Wouldn’t blame ye, not when ye didn’t know ‘im afore.”
He was looking at her now, a considering look in his eyes and Belle knew she’d been given a warning. Either stay for the campaign or go home now. Any half measures would only do more harm than good.
Belle hauled in a breath, feeling the icy night air biting at her lungs. “Stubborn and hard-headed, you say?” She stared back at her husband, a man who was broken rather more thoroughly than any visible marks could attest to. Well, he’d done his part, he’d been brave so that the people of this country were safe. Now it was her turn to be brave on his behalf.
Getting to her feet, she cast Charlie one last anxious glance, seeing hope flickering in his eyes, and hauled in a breath.
“Lord Winterbourne!” Her voice was strong and a touch strident and it rang out, echoin
g around the still quiet of the snow-covered stables. To her relief, the man jolted slightly and woke, staring up at her, all be it a trifle blearily. “This, sir, if you may remember, is our wedding night. So far, I’m not impressed.” She folded her arms and scowled at him, hoping that she looked furious when she was, in fact, quaking in her boots. His expression didn’t change, though she thought there was a little surprise showing in his eyes. “However, if this is how you deem it fit for us to spend our first night as man and wife, I suppose I must endeavour to support you.”
Her husband’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as Belle regarded the freezing ground with distaste. With a grimace and a sharp intake of breath as the snow seeped through her skirts, she sat down beside him.
“What the devil are you doing?” he demanded, turning to stare at her, apparently torn between incredulity and annoyance, and sounding rather more sober than he had moments earlier. She noticed Charlie backing away out of sight, and Belle turned to stare back at the marquess.
“If my husband sees fit to freeze himself to death on the night of our marriage, as his wife, it is my duty to remain at his side.” The words were harsh and sarcastic, and she saw the bewilderment in his expression with satisfaction. She’d surprised him, at least. Belle folded her arms and did not need to play-act to make her teeth start to chatter. “So, we’ll both catch pneumonia together,” she added, the words distorted by the fact she really was shivering in earnest. “That should please you enormously, as being married to me is obviously too horrendous to actually live with.” This last was said with real bitterness, and despite everything that Charlie had said, she couldn’t help but feel that he resented her, this marriage, all of it. Not that she blamed him, he had been trapped after all, but couldn’t he at least try? Even a little?
There was silence now, and Belle wrapped her arms around herself, watching the snow falling and wondering if she had the slightest idea of what she was doing. She was freezing and miserable and she didn’t know how to help the troubled man at her side.
One Wicked Winter Page 14