‘Juliana!’ Mrs Milford was calling. ‘We need you to help us decide between these two fashion plates for Olivia’s new ballgown!’
With one last look at Harry, Juliana stood and rejoined the others.
* * *
Two weeks had passed with heavy rain and blustery showers, and Mama would be put off no longer. The arrangements were made, a sea crossing booked and Juliana accepted she now had only a few days left in England. Napoleon was continuing to make his plans, but he had not yet made his move. Mama insisted they must go and that they would be safe in their little house in Brussels. Juliana, determined to enjoy these last few days of happiness, tried not to think of the future.
Finally, a day dawned fair and dry, and, after checking with the head groom, Joseph, that it was likely to remain dry all day, Adam and Charlotte confirmed they would go ahead with the much-delayed picnic. Juliana, in a bout of silliness she hadn’t enjoyed since she was seventeen, took an inordinate length of time over choosing her dress.
‘I am so sorry, Priddy,’ she said, apologising to Charlotte’s personal maid, whom she had known for years. ‘I do not know why I am so demanding today!’
‘It is not like you to be unsure of yourself, Miss Juliana,’ Priddy said, with a knowing glint in her eye. ‘So are you decided on the green crape?’
‘Yes!’ affirmed Juliana, turning from side to side as she once again checked her reflection. ‘I have a matching spencer for this one, in a deeper green. And, somewhere, a parasol.’
‘I know exactly where they are,’ snorted Priddy, opening the oak armoire in the corner of Juliana’s room, ‘for I take pride in my work. I have always believed if I do something to the best of my ability, I am immune from criticism.’
‘But surely disapproval can still occur, even when we do things correctly?’
‘If I have truly done all I can, then any such censure is none of my business, but rather reflects poorly on those who criticise. Words that try to wound have therefore no power over me. Here you are, miss.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Juliana shrugged her way into the spencer and buttoned it up. Priddy’s philosophy might serve her well should she experience insult or disdain from anyone at Vauxhall today.
‘If you know your own true worth, then no one can truly hurt you.’ Priddy eyed her levelly through the glass. ‘Yes, that spencer matches perfectly. Here are your gloves and parasol.’
Taking them, Juliana smiled and thanked Priddy. In truth, she felt immune from any hurt today. The sun was shining, she was in love and she was to spend the entire day with Harry!
And with Mama, Charlotte, Adam, Olivia and Great-Aunt Clara. While she loved them all and looked forward to the entertainments the day would bring, in truth Juliana knew it was Harry who was at the heart of this happiness. She moved along the landing and started down the stairs, aware she was blessed to have found a love like this. While neither of them had actually made an open declaration of love, they understood each other. She was under no illusions about her beloved. Harry was stubborn—as stubborn as she. He was also capable of irritating superficiality. But she knew him. Knew his true heart—his integrity, sense of duty, his deep love for his family. She recognised his great capacity for compassion and marvelled at his big heart. These past two weeks had been blissful. It was extraordinary that this wonderful man loved her!
He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes kindled as he saw her. Her eyes fixed on his, Juliana moved unthinkingly toward him.
‘My love!’ he murmured huskily, lifting her hand to kiss. I am glad I have not yet put on my gloves, thought Juliana, thrilling at the touch of his warm lips on her skin. ‘You look stunning!’ he continued, his other hand coming up to touch her face. She tilted her head to lean into his caress, and he caught his breath.
‘—which is why I have ordered the phaeton, as well as the coach.’ Adam’s voice came to them from further down the hallway, and they both moved apart, a little guiltily.
‘So will Harry drive the phaeton?’ asked Charlotte, approaching. ‘Oh, there you are, Harry! Would you mind driving Juliana in the phaeton, for we would be better taking the other ladies in the coach? Adam can ride alongside us.’ If Charlotte had noticed the culpable behaviour of her friend and her brother-in-law, she gave no sign. As usual.
‘An excellent notion! I should treasure the opportunity to drive Miss Milford in the phaeton,’ confirmed Harry, beaming.
‘I thought you would,’ said Adam, his expression inscrutable.
The other ladies soon joined them and they all bustled outside, an air of excitement fuelling the ladies to chatter, and exclaim, and compliment each other’s outfits. Mrs Milford meanwhile was continuing to behave with more energy, confidence and happiness than Juliana could ever remember. It gave her hope this truly was a new era in her mother’s troubled life.
Harry handed Juliana up into the high-perch phaeton—a dashing model more suited to racing than to sedate jaunts through the city streets. He jumped up beside her and grinned as he took the reins from the groom. ‘I have a plan!’ he said conspiratorially.
Caught up in his infectious humour, Juliana grinned back. ‘Oh, yes?’ she murmured. ‘Impress me, then!’
‘Oh, I shall,’ he returned, every word a promise. ‘Adam, we shall meet you at Vauxhall!’
Adam, who was busy supervising the loading of two large picnic baskets on to the back of the ladies’ carriage, waved abstractedly.
‘Hyaa!’ cried Harry, setting the matched bays in motion. In a neat move, he manoeuvred the phaeton out from behind the coach and into the stream of traffic. Juliana waved at Charlotte as they sped past, then the others were behind them and they were driving through London.
Juliana had heard Adam and Olivia tease Harry on his driving skills—apparently he was a notable whip. She frowned slightly as she remembered he had taken Millicent out driving, then reassured herself. It was she who was with him now, and she truly believed he had never felt anything for Millicent.
She cast an eye sideways, enjoying the sight of Harry’s muscular legs, encased in tight-fitting breeches and top boots. He braced himself against the footboard as the phaeton sped and turned, and she could see the play of muscles there and in his strong forearm as he expertly handled the reins in his left hand.
Her gaze moved on, upwards... His clothing today was particularly striking, and, as always, of the finest quality. The cravat was expertly tied and spotlessly white, while his waistcoat was an attractive pale gold, embroidered with a tracery of gold leaves. Over this he wore a snug-fitting coat of deep blue, which now drew her eyes to the breadth of his shoulders, the near one so close to her. He turned his head towards her and she immediately looked ahead, not wanting to be caught studying his form.
He chuckled softly. ‘Patience, my love.’
She found her voice. ‘Where are we going?’
He grinned. ‘Since the coachman will take at least half an hour to drive them all the way to Vauxhall, you and I have time for a diversion.’ He turned and murmured in her ear, ‘They will travel directly down Whitehall, while we will divert through St James’s Park.’
His mouth briefly brushed her ear as he spoke, sending a delicious shiver through her.
‘Whoa!’ Harry’s attention was back on his driving—he had narrowly missed careering straight into a large coach which had decided to pull out in front of them. Juliana gripped the side of the phaeton and vowed to remain silent, as Harry expertly manoeuvred the vehicle through the narrowest of gaps, leaving the lumbering coach in their wake.
‘Nicely done!’ she ventured, exhaling in relief. He just grinned.
Thankfully, they had now reached the gates of the park. Their path ahead was clear, so Harry gave the horses their heads. They sped through the park, travelling at a faster pace than Juliana had ever experienced. She held on to her bonnet as the air rushed by and
could not resist letting out a hoot of glee. She had never known such exhilaration!
Harry whooped, too, then glanced at her. Raising his voice against the thunder of hooves and the whistle of the air whooshing by, he yelled, ‘Take my arm!’ He lifted his elbow to allow her to slip her hand inside the crook of his arm, then warmly clamped her arm close to him.
All too soon he slowed, the trees ahead necessitating a more measured pace. Pulling the horses to a gradual halt under the trees, he spoke softly to them, then turned towards Juliana.
‘I think I know the answer to this, but tell me—were you frightened?’
‘Frightened? Of course not! I have never felt so...’ She paused, looking for the right word.
‘Exhilarated?’
‘No—though it was certainly exhilarating.’ He waited, his eyes intent on her. ‘I have it! Alive. I felt truly alive. As though everything had come together in a perfect moment.’
His eyes widened, then he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense. ‘Juliana, I am not a man much given to prayers, although like all soldiers I speak to the Almighty in times of need. But I am moved to say that He has sent me a remarkable woman to care for and for that I am grateful.’
Her heart swelled as he bent his head to touch his lips to hers. This kiss was unlike any they had shared so far. While her body responded as it did each time their mouths joined, this time Juliana felt a purity, a reverence that moved them both. They pulled back to look at each other.
‘May I ask something of you?’ His voice was husky and his expression uncertain. She tilted her head quizzically. ‘I have taken the liberty of bringing these with me today.’ He fished in the small compartment beside his seat, emerging with a small pair of scissors. ‘I would consider it an honour if you would gift me a lock of your hair.’
‘Oh, how romantic!’ Juliana had heard of such customs, but only in the pages of novels. To have Harry demonstrate his passion for her in such a way was extraordinary. In the novel, the lady involved usually responded with coy archness, making a game of extracting every last ounce of drama from the request. Juliana, incapable of dissembling, simply smiled and assented.
She removed her bonnet and sat still, as Harry took time to touch her hair, before eventually selecting a dark curl from the left side. ‘May I?’ he asked again.
Juliana felt for it, in the location where his hand lingered. Their fingers touched as he passed the small curl to her. It was in a location where her hair was thick and luxuriant, and where the missing tendril would not be noticeable. ‘Yes,’ she said. It felt like a vow.
He took a deep breath, then lifted the scissors from his lap. His hand shook slightly, but he isolated the curl and removed it with a careful motion. He kissed it reverently, before placing it in his watch pocket.
Juliana felt time stand still for an instant. In that moment, she took in the sight of him, perfectly framed against the lush trees beyond. The sun had emerged from behind the clouds and dappled them both in warm green light. She felt she would never forget this moment, or the happiness she felt. The dark shadows in their future seemed far, far away.
Chapter Eighteen
‘One more thing, Captain.’ Major Cooke still looked grave—as well he might. He and Harry had been analysing the latest information on Napoleon’s forces and the numbers were, frankly, disheartening. The erstwhile Emperor had amassed a huge following and was currently working on his battle preparations. As were the British, the Prussians, Hanover, Brunswick and the Dutch. Across Europe, armies were in full preparation footing—organising stocks of food, tents, muskets, gunpowder, uniforms, shoes and, importantly, accurate maps. Harry and Major Cooke had spent the day and all evening calculating and recalculating the latest numbers—supplies received, further equipment that was on its way to the various camps and the remaining orders needing to be organised. They had to do all they could to ensure the army would be well supplied with all they needed.
It was now well past midnight and the Major had called for a bottle of port to help them through the final paperwork. Harry was tired, though worry prevented any risk of sleepiness. This was vital work, though tedious. Both men knew the importance of keeping their men armed, fed and sheltered. It could make all the difference between winning and losing.
‘I signed the commission today for Lieutenant Evans’s promotion—you did well recommending him.’
‘Excellent news! I am delighted for him.’ Harry could not resist a feeling of pride. He had seen Evans grow in skill and confidence during their two years serving together. He would make an excellent captain. He also felt a small pang of loss—he and Evans would not serve closely together in future.
‘I have also discussed your own situation. I should inform you I have recommended you for Major, once you have completed your six years’ service.’
Harry was touched. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Not at all, Captain—you have earned it. Reliable, intelligent, a natural leader of men. And you are courageous in battle—heart of a lion!’
Harry shook his head. ‘Not so. I am a greater coward than you know.’ He had to say it. The thought that he could be offered promotion under false colours greatly disturbed him.
‘Nonsense!’ Major Cooke brushed away his words, unwilling to listen or accept Harry’s assertion. ‘You deserve it and will make a fine senior officer! But, I have more news for you. I have appointed you a new subaltern, as I know you will feel the loss of Lieutenant Evans.’
‘Oh?’ Harry was immediately interested. He hoped he would like the man—some junior officers were worse than useless.
‘Yes—and here he is, with the port.’ The young man who had been assisting them throughout the day, acting as secretary, runner and general aide, had returned with a large bottle of port. ‘Thank you, Jem. Captain Fanton, may I present to you once again Ensign James Ford, who will assist you in managing your Company. He will travel with you on Monday, when you leave for Brussels.’
Harry shook the man’s hand and said something appropriate. Inwardly, his heart sank. Jem, while a pleasant lad who was clearly eager to please, had seen little action and could certainly not be described as battle-ready. Harry foresaw he would spend much of his time in the build-up to the coming campaign trying to prepare a green youth for battle. Just for a second, he had a vision of Jem lying dead on a battlefield. His stomach clenched.
‘Honoured to serve you, sir,’ said Jem, his eyes shining. Harry suddenly felt old.
* * *
Exhausted and drained, Harry had no difficulties in falling asleep. The night watchman had been calling three o’clock when he had tiptoed into the house, admitted by an extremely sleepy footman. Harry thanked the man, knowing he would be expected to be on duty for breakfast as usual. He went straight to his chamber and, abandoning for once his soldier’s habit of folding his clothes neatly as he removed them, he threw them all on to a chair, then climbed into bed, grateful for the blissful forgetfulness of sleep.
Within what seemed like moments though, he was awake again, drenched in sweat and convinced he was once more in that street in Badajoz. Unable to summon the strength to fight the memories, he lay like a corpse staring into the darkness as the recollections washed over him like a wave. He drowned in them...
Once again he was in Badajoz, that small Spanish town that had held out so long against the British siege. The French garrison had been taken, and Wellesley was victorious, but they had lost thousands of soldiers’ lives in the assault. The common soldiers had drunk as much liquor as they could find and then the trouble had begun.
As dawn broke the officers had been called upon to intervene, but when Harry had reached the scene what he found had held him transfixed with shock.
Harry closed his eyes now, accepting the inevitable.
Could he not have intervened to save that father from being murdered, blood from his
neck wound spurting and flowing down three uneven steps to pool at his feet?
Could he not have prevented that young woman from being dragged by the hair into a nearby house? He saw again her white face, heard her screams mixed with the gleeful laughter of his berserking comrades as they continued their murderous, drunken assault on the families of Badajoz.
Standing in that dusty Spanish town, its walls finally breached, he had slowly understood that his comrades—British soldiers—had lost all control. They had murdered indiscriminately, their rage at the townspeople motivated by revenge. And not just murder. To his left, he had seen a small boy of about six being violently beaten by a redcoat. His agonised screams still filled Harry’s consciousness.
On the day Harry had stood motionless, unable to move, think or even fully take in what was happening around him. He saw again the woman with the blue dress—the one he’d assumed was the boy’s mother—attack the soldier with a kitchen knife.
She’d driven the knife through the soldier’s back and straight into his heart. He’d slumped over the boy, his blood a slowly growing puddle in the dusty earth. The woman had started to remove the knife, then paused mid-action as another redcoat had brought his bayonet down on her neck with great force, cleaving her shoulder from her neck.
She’d fallen without a sound, arms outstretched. Woman, man and boy merged in a crumpled heap of blue fabric and red, red blood.
At the time, Harry had had no conscious idea of how long he’d stood there. Afterwards, he calculated that he had been frozen for no longer than a minute. Then his soldier’s instincts had finally arisen. He had begun barking orders at the renegade soldiers, running towards the fray as he did so.
Running into the house, he had pulled the redcoat off the young woman and punched him—hard. The soldier had slumped to the floor. He had tried to apologise to the woman, but she’d run out, sobbing in fear and shock. He had followed and surveyed the scene again.
To his left, a British soldier had been kicking an elderly man who lay on the ground, desperately trying to protect his head. Harry had pulled him away. The soldier had turned with a snarl of fury, raising his bayonet as he did so.
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