Bar Sinister

by Sheila Simonson

  Wilson burnt the newspaper on the study grate and told his wife only that he meant to enquire for her brother at the Horse Guards. He wished to spare her the grisly rumours he was sure were rife in the capital. An appeal to her maternal instincts generally succeeded where reason did not. In the end he persuaded her to stay home with the boys.

  Three days later he returned to her, and there was now no point in hiding newspapers. She met him at the front entry.

  "Mrs. Foster sent to tell me Richard has been wounded. Did you know that when you left?"

  He kissed her. Her cheek was stiff to his touch. "I read 'missing, presumed killed.' I wanted to be sure."

  "You might have told me. He's my brother."

  "My dear, I wanted to spare you the uncertainty."

  She gave him a disbelieving stare, but wifeliness overcame her and she caused the servants to take his driving coat. She even sent for refreshment.

  When he had settled into his favourite chair and taken his first sip of sherry, however, she leapt to the attack. "I must go to Richard at once."

  "You cannot, Sarah. At such a time, Brussels is no place for a lady."

  "Then you must go. Find Richard and bring him here."

  He took a swallow of sherry, rinsing the dust from his throat. Over the rim of the glass he searched his wife's face. She looked her full age. For a moment pity made him helpless to speak.

  "You must, Robin." This time she was pleading.

  "I shall go to him, of course, Sarah, as soon as may be. I have already directed my man of business to make enquiries. These financial types have connexions in Antwerp."

  "If you delay he may die before you reach him."

  "He may be dead already, my dear," Wilson said gently. "The word was, 'gravely wounded.'"

  "Then go at once."

  "Very well, in the morning. But bringing your brother here is out of the question. He will be far too ill to move."

  "Then you shall stay with him until the doctors say he may be moved. For God's sake, Robert."

  Wilson rose. Sarah rarely used his full Christian name, preferring Robin. He preferred Robin, too. He paced to the long window and stood looking out. The sun was setting in a pastel glow. "We cannot bring him here, Sally."

  "We can and we will."

  Wilson did not turn. "Shall you tell your sons that he is their uncle?"

  "Yes," Sarah said, fierce.

  Wilson turned, brows raised. "Have you changed your loyalties? What of your mother?"

  "I don't believe Maman would wish me to leave Richard in the care of strangers."

  That was too much like fustian for Wilson. "It's late in the day for the dowager to succumb to maternal concern she does not feel. You forget I've spoken with her of her by-blow. Your brother has served in the army more than half his life. I daresay he has been hit before and must certainly have been in the care of strangers."

  "You are hateful, Robert."

  "I hope not." He went to her and stood looking down at her. "I find your baseborn brother rather more interesting than your legitimate brothers, Sarah, and I am certainly ready to serve him. It is the dowager who would not inconvenience herself for him. If you cause Richard Falk to be brought here openly, as your brother, there will inevitably be gossip and the gossip will light on her grace's head. She is fond of our sons. Will she be happy when they look at her askance? Will you be happy?"

  Sarah's jaw set.

  Wilson sighed. "Very well. It may take me a month."

  Sarah began to cry. "Oh, Robin, you are so good to me."

  "I know it, madam." He smoothed her hair. "I can't think why. You'd best prepare your mother. No. We can't bring him here."

  Sarah peered at him from behind the flimsy lace handkerchief with which she had been touching her eyes. "Newsham?"

  "Yes." Wilson sat with disgusted energy on the chair nearest her. "What a stupid tangle. Well, I'll go to Brussels and see what may be done. I wish the dowager may be brought to acknowledge her guilt unequivocally. Do you try to persuade her this time, Sarah. Then we may whistle at Newsham and have the colonel--he is now a lieutenant colonel. Did you know that?"

  Sarah nodded and blew her nose.

  "Then we may have the colonel to visit whenever we and he wish it." Absurd to be thinking of the social amenities. The man was, in all probability, already dead.

  Perhaps Sarah read his thought, for her gloom did not lift. "I'll try, but I don't think it will do any good. She is adamant."

  Wilson sighed. He, too, thought it improbable that the dowager would soften. She could be very stubborn indeed.

  * * * *

  Emily had taken her new gig out early because of the heat. Even so, a billow of dust followed her from farm to cottage to farm like a tame ghost. The weather had been relentlessly beautiful since the week before Water-loo. Nature ought to weep.

  Emily was beginning to deal with the probability of Richard Falk's death. The numbness had not yet worn off, but she knew from past experience what would happen when it did wear off. In sequence, fury, a burst of grief, and long months of misery afterwards. Prickles of anger shot through the dull fog of her disbelief. It was doubly unkind of fate to deal her such a blow when she had finally come to terms with her muddled feelings. She did indeed love the author of Doña Inez. He was probably dead. A dead letter. Emily's mouth twisted at the sourness of the irony.

  "Halloo!"

  Emily reined back for a haywain that lumbered into the lane from an adjacent field.

  "Good day t'ye, Miz Foster. Champion haying weather." Her lips formed a smile for Mr. Proudy, one of her major tenants. He had his third son with him. The boy had grown half a foot in the past year and gangled at her from the slippery top of the piled hay. The wagon lurched. Willie Proudy grinned down at her and grabbed at his pitchfork to keep from sliding off.

  Her team switched restlessly as the revenant dust settled upon them, but she held them back until the Proudy wain turned off. She tasted grit. A fine buff powder sifted down on the shoulders of her habit. Still she waited until she had the lane to herself again. She did not need to be gaped and grinned at.

  The hay was early. Her father thought they might make an extra crop. Perhaps she ought to feed another milch cow through the winter this year. Eustachio was not a big eater. There ought to be enough hay to feed another cow. Mrs. Harry would be glad of the milk for cheeses. Emily clucked and eased the ribbons, and the patient bays stepped along the lane.

  Wild roses flared in bloom in the hedgerows. The air was thick with dust and the scent of roses. On her left hand her father's cornfields, each stalk of wheat heavy with promising grain, swelled up as far as the old apple orchard. Off to her right she could see a generous swath of her own demesne, rye and blue wheat, lucerne on the rich bottom. The tidy fields were tidily squared by hedges and ditches under the gunmetal sky.

  Everything in good order, she told herself, as the gig passed into a small stand of oak. The shade was welcome after the blinding sunlight. She should sell some timber this year. Of course the price would fall with the war over. Abruptly she pulled over on the verge and yanked a square of linen from the pocket of her skirt. She had been crying again without knowing it. Leaking tears like an old cistern. She scrubbed at her eyes.

  The battle had taken her by surprise. She hadn't been thinking of battles, her mind on the Duke of Newsham and Lady Sarah and byzantine plots. Fiction, she thought, furious, mopping her face. Phantasy. All the while the familiar bugaboo, Bonaparte, had been moving his flesh and blood legions in for the kill. She ought to have expected it. For three years now she had expected it. She'd been used to the idea. Damnation to Lady Sarah Wilson for distracting her from reality. It wasn't fair.

  The horses were gorging themselves on a toothsome clump of cow parsley. A horsefly, discouraged by the flickflick of their undocked tails, decided to sample Emily's damp face. She swatted at it violently. One of the bays looked back at her.

  "Oh, the devil. Giddap." She flapped the
reins and the obedient team left off munching.

  This will not do, Emily, her sensible self told her in accents reminiscent of Aunt Fan. The horses plodded slowly up the long hill home. You are a mature woman with responsibilities. Life--children, horses, cows, vegetable marrows, roses--must go on, and you are in charge of this particular slice of life. "Duty calleth, stern daughter of the voice of God." That was Mr. Wordsworth, wasn't it? He was always right, Wordsworth.

  By the time she turned into the approach to Wellfield House, Emily was in tolerable command of her emotions once more. The sight of Lady Sarah's barouche drawn up before the front door jolted her heart, but her pulse steadied. At the stables, she gave the groom her reins, stepped down calmly, and walked back to the house to face the verdict.

  She took the side door that led through the kitchen, stopping to bathe her hot face under the scullery pump.

  Mrs. Harry greeted her cheerily, rattled pots on the range, went on with her work. In the hall Emily laid her gloves and bonnet on the narrow table and smoothed her hair. Her face stared somberly back at her. She looked flushed and tired, but her eyes weren't noticeably swollen. She brushed the dust from her habit with great care.

  Phillida came into the hall, mobcap askew, eyes curious. "Oh, Mrs. Foster, that Lady Sarah's in drawing room--"

  Emily cut her off. "Yes, I know. Bring the sherry tray."

  "Sherry?" Phillida gaped. It was not yet eleven o'clock.

  "You heard what I said," Emily snapped. "Bring it at once." She made herself go into the withdrawing room.

  Lady Sarah was pacing the carpet. She stopped dead when Emily entered. "He's still alive."

  Emily sat with a thud on the nearest chair.

  "Oh Lord, I oughtn't to have blurted it out. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Foster--Emily."

  Emily took a gulp of air, and the room stopped spinning. Lady Sarah was leaning over her, eyes anxious. Emily forced a smile. "These are good news indeed. Has Sir Robert--"

  "Robin found Richard five days ago and writ me that evening. The letter...just a note, really..."

  Emily took from her the single crossed sheet and focussed on Sir Robert's finicking hand. Sarah had the kindness to keep still. She sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair.

  Emily read the letter through twice. Finally she gave up, shaking her head. "I don't seem to be taking this in. What... Is he... Is your brother very bad?"

  "Yes." Sarah ran the tip of her tongue over her lips as if they were dry. "Yes, very bad, but Robin thinks there's some hope of his eventual recovery."

  Emily closed her eyes, opened them, unclenched her hand on the crumpled letter. "I beg your pardon, Lady Sarah. You will be thinking I've lost my wits as well as my manners." She smoothed the sheet with trembling fingers and handed it back. "When I saw your barouche at the door I foolishly assumed the worst." She gave a shaky but creditable laugh. "I'm obliged to you for coming."

  "I had Robin's letter last evening." Lady Sarah smiled a tremulous smile. "By special messenger. I put the barouche to at half past nine this morning. I could have sent one of the grooms with a note last night, but I thought I ought to tell you myself."

  Emily looked at her guest, seeing her for the first time. Sarah's eyes were shadowed with sleeplessness and she looked as if she had thrown her clothes on at random. Her hair escaped the summer straw bonnet in wisps.

  "You're very kind, Lady Sarah. I'm grateful."

  "Shall you tell the children?"

  "Yes."

  The two women exchanged stark glances. Sarah looked down at the shell-pink gloves she was twisting in her hands. They did not match her buttercup yellow gown.

  "Sherry, ma'am." Phillida crashed through the door. The tray tilted dangerously.

  "Thank you. Leave us, if you please."

  Phillida did not please. She trailed out, gawking over her shoulder.

  "Shall I pour?" Sarah's abused gloves slid to the floor.

  "If you will be so kind," Emily said carefully. "My hands seem to be shaking."

  "Here."

  "Thank you." Emily swallowed a mouthful of the sweet wine and sat very still. As it began to warm her, she took another, slower sip and groped for something to say. "I...the letter... Sir Robert writes in very general terms. A head injury?"

  "Yes, and a bad wound in the shoulder joint."

  "Which arm?"

  "He doesn't say."

  Emily swallowed the remains of her sherry and rose to pour herself another glass. "More?"

  "Please. I shall be disguised. I couldn't eat breakfast."

  Emily, her energy sweeping back with a rush, rose and stalked to the bellpull. "That at least we can remedy. You'll take an early nuncheon with me, I hope. I couldn't eat either. I find myself suddenly ravenous."

  Sarah rummaged in her reticule. "Oh, dear...I oughtn't...it was such a relief to hear..." She took out a wispy lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "Yes! By all means, Emily. What a sensible woman you are. I could eat my horses. Without mustard."

  Both ladies laughed immoderately at this unremarkable joke. Emily did not feel at all sensible.

  When Lady Sarah had gone at last Emily made straight for her bookroom, which was dark owing to an overgrowth of ivy, and had a thorough cry. Then she marched upstairs, washed her face, changed into a cool muslin gown, and made herself break the news to Amy.

  Amy and Matt were frightened, but not terrified, and Matt was unnaturally kind to Amy for several hours afterwards. He promised to let her ride Eustachio as much as she wanted for a week. Peggy McGrath, though visibly shaken, had the good sense not to screech. Tommy dumped a bowl of bread and milk on the floor.

  Apprised of the news by a note which the new groom carried to Mayne Hall, Sir Henry and Aunt Fan rallied to Emily's side. It was nearly midnight before she again had time to think.

  She lay in her darkened bedchamber staring dry-eyed at the flounced canopy of the bed. It was foolish to feel so light, so hopeful. That Richard Falk had been alive five days ago was no guarantee that he still lived. If only she could drop everything and go to Belgium to see for herself. What special merit had Sir Robert Wilson that he should be so privileged? And what did he know about caring for invalids? She thought of plump, good-natured Sir Robert with something approaching dislike.

  Kind of Lady Sarah to bring the news herself, directly. It almost compensated for the fact that, thanks to her meddling, Richard Falk had gone into battle with an unquiet mind. Almost.

  I must write him at once. Emily sat up, galvanised. He will need to know his children are safe and well. At last, something to do. That was the worst of it, to be sitting about waiting with nothing to do. What had Sir Robert's letter said? Still unconscious from a severe head wound. Sighing, Emily lay back once more against the pillows. Wait for morning. Wait. After a long time staring at the canopy she finally drowsed off on that thought. It was going to be a long wait.

  21

  A fortnight after he found his brother-in-law, Sir Robert Wilson sat in his ornate room in the Hotel Bretagne in Brussels and wished himself home in Hampshire. He was writing Sarah, and his facility with the pen had deserted him. Crumpled paper littered the floor.

  What was he, a sedentary man, amateur of letters, doing in Brussels that others could not have done better? The previous day Richard Falk had recognised him for the first time--and flinched.

  Well, he must write. Sarah would be imagining horrors if he didn't. He drew the sheet of paper to him, dipped his newfangled steel pen in the inkwell and began again:

  My dearest Sal,

  You will be wishing me in Hades--or home--for not writing sooner, but I have been waiting on events. I can now supply you with a fuller account of your brother's condition than I gave you in my first letter. Pray share the information with Mrs. Foster. I fear her anxiety must be nearly as great as yours.

  Richard will probably live. I have now got him a comfortable room with friends of Brotherton. (Brotherton was Wilson's man of business.) The family--they ar
e well-regarded merchants--are most attentive. The worst of it is the head wound.

  At first I thought Richard had been blinded, for they bandaged his eyes. I am assured there is no danger of that, however. Merely be had complained of the light. He still has wretched headaches. The scar on his forehead will be covered by his hair, and the surgeons no longer believe his skull cracked. His memory is partially affected, however, with regard to the battle. Fragments of a musket ball and silver lace from his epaulette are still lodged near the point of his right shoulder. Those are the worst injuries, the rest resolving into cuts, bruises, and slashes, ugly but not serious. He is still exceedingly ill, my dear Sarah, which, now I have reread my catalogue of grue, I think you will credit. He cannot be moved. Indeed they mean to try another surgery on the shoulder when he has gained a little strength.

  You were quite right to make me come. The Bruxellois are everything that is kind--to our wounded and to those of the French so fortunate as to have survived three days and nights on the field. As you may imagine, however, the city overflows with the injured, and the medical capabilities of both military and civilian doctors are stretched to the limits. Your brother was lucky to have been left only one night and half a day without attention. His servant, McGrath, accompanied the cart which brought Richard and ten others to Brussels, and McGrath found an artisan with an empty room to which Richard could be taken. Otherwise be must have lain overnight in the wretched vehicle. All this on top of his injuries left your brother very near death.

  He has suffered intermittently from fevers associated with his wounds, and because of the head injury he was, in any case, quite unconscious for six days. He has been bled rather more often than I should myself recommend, but then I am no physician. For long stretches of time, he sleeps or lapses into delirium. It was only yesterday that I could be certain he recognised me. That, indeed, was not entirely a happy chance.

  When I assured him repeatedly that his children were safe he seemed easier, but I could tell that the sight of my inoffensive phiz gave him a jolt. My dear, I do not at all enjoy being looked upon as a Bird of Ill Omen. Nor do I like being absent from my home, my sons, and my Sally. You must consider me fixed here for at least a month, however. I have seen Richmond and Lady Frances Webster. The Duke (of Wellington, I mean) is said to be near Paris. What exciting times we live in, to be sure. I find I prefer dullness. My best love to the Boys and my dearest love to my Sarah.