‘Harry, please listen to me!’
Pointedly, he removed her hand. ‘Madam, you presume too much. I made you no promises.’
Juliana felt as though she might faint. ‘What?’ she asked, dazed. ‘What?’ She brought her hand to her mouth. She could feel the blood draining from her face.
‘I will accompany you and your mother to Brussels, as ordered by my senior officer. But my fate and my preparations are none of your concern. Now, if you will excuse me...’ He bowed sharply, turned on his heel and left. The door swung closed behind him, shutting with an audible, final click.
Juliana gripped the Major’s table in shock. How long she stood there, unseeing, she could not afterwards recall. Harry’s cruel words rang in her ears, while the cold look in his eyes was seared into her memory. Slowly, she moved, making her way along the corridor, up the narrow stairs and out on to the deck. It was now raining. She knew she should lift her hood to protect her bonnet, but somehow nothing mattered. She stumbled forward to the edge and gripped the wooden rail with both hands, gazing at the swirling foam and swelling waves below.
She laughed shortly, uncaring what those nearby thought of her. She was a fool! And he had played her, like a virtuoso played the violin, drawing every last drop of sweetness and emotion before stopping, leaving notes hanging in the air and the audience bereft. A master, in total command of the situation.
Of course she should have known better. She, who had seen what he was from their very first meeting. Her hackles had been up that first day in Dover, bristling like a hound scenting danger. She had known! Yet she had allowed him to persuade her of his good faith, had believed his flirtation to be genuine. How many women had he broken with his games? For he had ensured her heart was truly his before drawing back. No mere flirtation would do. Harry had pursued her and persuaded her, and convinced her that his act was real. At least on stage the villains made themselves obvious by costume, and mask and demeanour. Harry took on the airs of an honourable man, all the while concealing his black heart.
As the realisation sank in, Juliana’s anger rose. Here, by her side, her true enemy had walked. When she thought of her own behaviour—smiling and sharing her deepest thoughts and fears with him, allowing him to kiss her... Oh, how she wished someone had shaken her! Look! they should have said. See him—the true Harry!
What had he said to Olivia, when she had wanted to depress Mr Nightingale’s aspirations? That Olivia could rid herself of her admirer while avoiding dramas? That was Harry in action—a master of the subtle withdrawal. All of the changes of the past days fitted entirely with his advice to Olivia. He was practised in the art of rejection and it cut her as surely as if he had stabbed a knife into her heart.
At least Olivia had treated Mr Nightingale with kindness. She had not deliberately led him on, but had simply failed at first to understand her own heart. Harry had no such excuse. A practised philanderer, he had simply taken his fill of Juliana’s company, won her round, then walked away.
At least she had not shared his bed! And, to be fair, he had made no serious attempt to seduce her. Remembering the night she had unwittingly entered his chamber, she shuddered. Anything might have happened! But even Harry, depraved as he was, had clearly drawn the line at seducing his sister-in-law’s friend while she was a guest in their home.
Suddenly, her mama’s reckless actions made a little more sense. At almost the same age as Juliana was now, she had eloped, crossing to France in a packet probably similar to this one, because she had believed herself to be in love. A year later she was mother to an infant, with no man and no prospects, relying on the kindness of strangers.
Would I have eloped with Harry, if he had asked me? Juliana gritted her teeth.
Poor deluded fool that she was, she could not be sure of anything. Would she have shared his bed, risking her reputation and her future? She could not say. The cool rain streamed down her face. She welcomed it, as it hid the weakness of her hot tears.
One thing was clear. She would not, could not judge dear Mama for her choices all those years ago. And her mother had always maintained John Milford had loved her. At least she had had that.
Juliana had not that comfort. Where she had given her heart, guilelessly and trustingly, Harry had hidden his intent behind a mask of smiles, a façade of warmth and caring. His false colours had deceived her. No more.
* * *
Juliana dreamed...
She steps through the door into a long hallway. There he is! He smiles and comes towards her, arms opening wide. She moves towards him, waiting to feel those strong arms closing around her, sense his warmth, hear his heart beating.
At the last instant he sidesteps, drops his arms to his sides and says, ‘I am only jesting!’ Then they are walking through the hallway, not touching, not together.
The sense of loss overwhelms her. She looks at his profile. He is oblivious, impassive, uncaring. The pain washes over her...
She woke, her face wet with tears. Where was she? The bedroom was unfamiliar in the soft dawn light. She raised her head from the wet pillow, then sank back down again. Brussels. Home. She turned over.
Another bad night. Sleep eluded her every night, as her mind was racked with pain. She tended to fall asleep eventually, sometimes hearing the bell-ringers call three, or even four, before oblivion claimed her. And always, she woke before dawn, swamped by grief and loss, and that tight knot of injustice.
The journey to Brussels had been every bit as painful as she had anticipated. Harry had been distant, polite and cold. Even her mother had noticed it, but had put it down—as Juliana previously had—to natural concern about the upcoming battles. It had been a relief when he had deposited them in their quiet house in the Rue de Brabant, disappearing off to meet with his Army colleagues. Juliana had turned quickly, not wanting to watch him walk away.
Mrs Milford showed no anxiety about being back in Brussels—despite the fact there was every possibility that Napoleon and his huge army would be on the march within weeks. Their servant, Sandrine, had made all ready for them and, Juliana’s mother declared, it was a relief to be back where she could be at ease.
Mrs Milford had quickly settled back into her old life, receiving visits from all her old friends, who were mostly of the lesser nobility and gentry—from France, England, Prussia, the Netherlands and even Italy. Madame Vastine, a plump, middle-aged matron, had taken them both under her wing, assuring them even if ‘that awful Napoleon’ was victorious, she would ensure they would be safe. Juliana did not share her confidence.
‘We will have much to do,’ she said, ‘if they join battle anywhere near Brussels, for they will bring the wounded here.’
She explained she was assisting at the local convent hospital, in order to prepare for the work of tending the wounded.
‘Is this just for the French?’ asked Mama. Juliana, still in a haze of loss, could barely bring herself to be interested.
‘Mais non! The sisters tend to all God’s children, no matter their uniform! These heathens try to take le bon Dieu out of France, but they cannot remove Him from our hearts!’ She looked at Juliana keenly. ‘Mademoiselle Milford, I would appreciate your assistance at l’hôpital tomorrow, if you are not otherwise engaged.’
‘Oh, yes, do go, Juliana! For I will be busy myself—all day.’ Mrs Milford looked mischievous and mysterious as she said it. Juliana found she had not the energy to probe Mama.
* * *
And so she found herself as the newest recruit in the convent hospital. As May turned to June and training was increased, the hospital became busier with soldiers accidentally injured during the preparations for the real war that everyone expected to come sooner rather than later. In a short time, Juliana grew adept at bathing and bandaging wounds, mopping fevered brows and feeding and comforting the wounded. She resisted the more gruesome duties—like holding men down while a surgeon sawed
off an infected limb—and left others to care for those who were clearly dying. She knew she had not the strength to deal with tragedy just now, as every soldier who came in was Harry, and every soldier who yelled in pain was Harry, and every soldier who died was Harry. Still, her sleep improved, if only through exhaustion.
Madame Vastine and the Sisters were grateful for her assistance nevertheless. Juliana was grateful, too. Grateful to have something to occupy her mind and her hands. Grateful to feel she had purpose. Grateful not to be sitting in a drawing room, conversing about the war, while inside her heart was breaking. Napoleon was moving north. Brussels was in his path. Yet nothing mattered, except that she had not seen Harry for four whole weeks.
She veered from pain to anger and back again, but the most destructive emotion of all was hope. It tore her apart as she imagined him coming to her, smiling with his eyes and taking her in his arms...
* * *
‘Juliana! You are wool-gathering again!’ Mrs Milford’s voice pierced Juliana’s reverie. ‘Where is my blue fan? I am sure I saw it just yesterday. I wish to bring it with me to the ball tonight, as this humidity will be the death of me in a crowded ballroom.’
‘I know exactly where it is, Mama.’ Juliana crossed to the dresser and opened the second drawer. There it was, nestled on top of Mama’s letters and papers.
‘What are you doing there? Come away from there!’ Mama’s voice was unusually sharp.
‘I have your fan.’ Juliana handed it to her, a little puzzled. Her mother was not normally so sensitive. Perhaps the pre-battle fever was affecting her as well. ‘You look beautiful, Mama.’
Her mother kissed her. ‘As do you, my darling Juliana. I do adore that shade of lilac on you.’
Juliana glanced in the mirror. It did become her. She loved this dress—a beautiful lilac silk with intricate embroidery on the bodice and along the hemline. Sandrine had dressed her hair in a classic Grecian knot, side curls perfectly placed to frame her face. Her only jewellery was a strand of pearls but, with her long evening gloves, dancing slippers and delicate fan, she certainly did not feel underdressed. The Duchess of Richmond’s ball had been the talk of Brussels for weeks and Juliana had been unable to resist imagining seeing Harry there. If Harry could see her tonight, at her finest, surely he—
‘Now, Juliana, you must enjoy the ball tonight! That is an order from your mama! Yes, do not think I have not noticed you are troubled.’ Her mother gripped her hand lightly. ‘Dance with lots of handsome soldiers and let us all forget that war will likely be upon us by the end of the week.’
Juliana swallowed. No, she could not talk to anyone about what had occurred between her and Harry, not even Mama. ‘Are you sure we will not be criticised for attending? The Duchess may not be pleased to know that a—that I am at her ball.’
Although they still had not talked of her mother’s past, she did not deny Juliana’s concerns. ‘Nonsense! This is not London, with its high sticklers! It will be perfectly fine, you’ll see.’
* * *
And so it proved. The Duchess’s ball was thronged with all of Brussels society—including almost all the Army officers. Juliana’s heart skipped a beat each time she saw a young soldier, for fear—or hope—that it might be Harry. They wore their red coats with knee breeches and dancing slippers, at the Duchess’s behest—she had decreed they were to show defiance against Napoleon’s approach. The Duke of Wellington was there, having calm conversations with his associates, and looking more relaxed than many of the non-military men, who, despite the Duchess’s strictures, wore expressions ranging from the morose to the harried. The Gordon Highlanders danced some thrilling reels and the atmosphere was one of febrile celebration.
Brussels was filled with royalty, military and society families, in gay defiance of Napoleon’s pretensions. Parties and balls were commonplace, but tonight, the Duchess of Richmond had outdone herself. Despite the thunderstorms and heavy rain, which might have caused her some anxiety, everyone came and the ballroom was thronged in what their hostess would be delighted to call a ‘sad crush’.
Juliana danced twice, briefly forgetting her woes in the thrill of the steps. Oh, how she loved to dance! This was truly the first moment she had been distracted from the pain of Harry’s betrayal. She moved through the figure: forward, back, now turn, and round again...her mind focused only on getting it right, and, briefly, fleetingly, she received respite from pain.
* * *
Harry saw her instantly. She was twirling around with a captain of Dragoons whom he knew slightly. He could sense her exhilaration in the energy and accuracy with which she moved through the dance and—there—the enjoyment on her beautiful face. He shrank back against a pillar, anxious to avoid her seeing him. He drank in every inch of her, every instant. He dared to hope that perhaps he had been right and only her pride, not her heart, had suffered.
Nonetheless, guilt washed over him as he recalled his last sight of her, alighting from the carriage outside her Brussels home in the Rue de Brabant, her face pale and drawn. He had thrown himself into his duties, volunteering for every dispatch, every task that would take him out of Brussels. The men were currently on the march, along the road towards Charleroi, where it was rumoured Napoleon might attack. He had been given a horse and charged with reporting to Headquarters. This he had done and, after food, a few hours’ sleep and a bath, could not resist the ball and perhaps his last-ever glimpse of the woman he loved.
Guilt followed him everywhere he went. He imagined her distress, felt it in every breath he took, every task he tried to complete. Every minute of every day. He would never forgive himself for any hurt he had caused her. He welcomed the guilt, wrapped himself in it as if it were a cloak. It went perfectly with his self-loathing.
His love for her was as strong as ever, and it killed him to think he might have caused her to feel pain. In these last days of his life, he was comforted by one thought. At the end, he was glad to have finally known love.
* * *
Mama had been right. The humidity tonight was oppressive and, after a particularly lively country dance, Juliana sought the sanctuary of the terrace. Low clouds were gathering again, threatening to spoil the evening with yet more rain, but at least there might be a breath of breeze outside.
Harry wasn’t here. Juliana’s shoulders slumped as she acknowledged the forlorn hope she’d held—that he would see her in this dress, with her hair expertly styled, and that he would—what? Have a sudden change of heart? She shook her head, annoyed with her own weakness. He was avoiding her. Of course he wouldn’t come to the ball.
The terrace was brightly lit and, apart from three young ladies grouped together at the far end, Juliana seemed to have the terrace to herself. There was a seat to her right and she moved towards it, almost colliding with someone large coming from the opposite direction.
‘Oh! Pardon me!’
‘Excuse me!’
‘Juliana!’ Harry’s face was lit by the three lanterns behind her, so she saw his unguarded expression clearly, unmistakably. Longing. A look in his eyes of such deep yearning, and love, and sadness, that it stopped her in her tracks.
Chapter Twenty-One
He still loved her! She could see it. Moved beyond measure, and acting purely on instinct, she launched herself forward and pressed her lips to his. For an instant she thought he might resist, then his arms came around her and his mouth responded to hers. They kissed ferociously, then tenderly. She tried to summon awareness—not because other people might see them, but because she wanted to remember. She wanted to experience every feeling, in her body and in her heart, in such a way that she would never, ever forget this moment.
All too soon, he pushed her away. Raking his fingers through his hair and glancing at the now giggling girls, he led Juliana off the terrace to the gardens below.
Here, the light was kinder—occasional torches and a lit
tle starlight from the breaks in the clouds. It wrapped them in semi-darkness and took them away from prying eyes. Harry seemed to be struggling to speak. Juliana was dazed, too, but in a dreamy, ecstatic way. His hand in hers was warm and solid, and her only anchor.
‘Juliana!’ His voice was husky. ‘This cannot be! I cannot—’ He dropped her hand and stalked a few paces to the side. ‘Can’t you see? I am unworthy, evil, unsuitable for you!’
What was this? Evil? What on earth was he talking about? Taking a deep breath, for it was possible he was on the verge of disclosing his most private thoughts to her, she said shakily, ‘I do not understand, Harry. Why would you be unworthy?’
He shook his head. ‘Everyone thinks I am well, that I am happy. The amiable Captain Fanton!’ He laughed hollowly. The sound was chilling. ‘I know how to make friends, how to charm my colleagues and the ladies, how to be liked. But the truth is, I am not him. I am Harry. And Harry is a coward, a disgusting, foul coward.’ She gasped and would have spoken, but he was determined to continue.
‘Since Badajoz, I have held this knowledge within me. What happened there torments me. When they speak of hell on Sundays, I hear it. I know it. I have been there. I go back there all the time. The things I have done... The things I have seen... The fear that makes me want to run from battle... The cowardice that is part of my soul... I am darkness. I fear sucking the life and the light out of those around me.’ He shook his head. ‘So I stay nowhere. I move constantly. I have a hundred friends, but no wife.’ His voice cracked with emotion. ‘I can never marry. How could I ask an innocent, sweet maiden to share her life with a monster like me?’
He sank to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees. His whole body was shaking. He looked up at her.
‘I look at you and I see light, and life, and beauty. And I want nothing more than to love you, to pull you close, to ask you to help me. But I will not do it! For it would destroy you, and how could I live with myself knowing I had harmed the woman I—the woman I—’
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