by Diane Gaston
Emmaline followed him, putting her palm on his back. “I will tend to the dishes. You have done enough.” She glanced out of the window that looked over a narrow alley. “It is very light outside. I will have to open the shop soon.”
Gabe thrust his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers around the velvet box. He released it and drew his hand out to touch her on her shoulders. “Come away for a moment.” He led her to the sofa and sat down with her, clasping her hand in his. “I have something to ask you.”
She met his gaze with interest, but only as much as if he were preparing to ask her what she would like him to purchase for their dinner.
He glanced down at her hand, imagining the ring on her long, graceful fingers.
“We have had a short time together,” he began.
She nodded, her expression turning wary. “You are going to say goodbye to me.”
He squeezed her hand. “I am going to propose that I never say goodbye to you.”
Her brows rose.
“Emmaline, I am asking you to marry me. I want you—want to be with you for ever.”
She paled. “Marry me?”
“I know the timing is ill. With Napoleon’s army so near, there must be a battle soon. But maybe we can marry quickly. I will find out the rules, see if it is possible—”
She pulled her hand away. “We cannot marry!”
His heart was pounding fast. “Maybe not before the battle, but afterwards, then.”
She jumped to her feet. “Non, Gabriel. How can I marry you? You are a British soldier.”
“I can sell my commission. After the battle.”
Her eyes flashed. “After the battle? Do you think that will make a difference?”
His face stung as if she’d slapped him. “Have I not shown you in every possible way the sort of man I am? Have we not been happy together?”
She looked away. “It is not the sort of happiness that can last.”
“Has it not been, Emmaline?” Gabe rubbed his hand against the outside of his pocket, feeling the box through the cloth. “I have experienced enjoyment that is meant to be fleeting. I know the difference. You cannot pretend this was a mere diversion for you.”
She could not meet his eye. “Of course I have enjoyed being with you, but I do not want to marry you.”
He leaned towards her. “Why?”
She took a breath. “My son despises you—”
“He does not know me. When the war is over, there will be time—”
She lifted her hand for him to stop. “The war will never be over for Claude. Do you not see? It will never be settled in his heart. I have tried—” Her voice cracked with emotion. She looked into his eyes. “I am all Claude has. He has lost too much. He has endured too much. I cannot abandon him.”
“I do not wish you to abandon him. He is a part of you. I want you both.” Gabriel’s insides felt as if they’d turned to stone. He knew even as he spoke the words that he’d lost her, that, if she believed she must choose between them, she must choose her son.
She lowered her gaze and her long lashes made shadows on her cheeks. “No, Gabriel. I cannot turn away from my son. Not even for you.”
He felt as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him. His very reason to exist had simply vanished like smoke into thin air.
He turned away and retrieved his coat.
Emmaline’s chest constricted as she watched him put on his coat, his back to her. Never had it occurred to her that he might want to marry her. How could he have thought of this time as anything but a brief affair? Soldiers were always having liaisons in whatever place they were billeted. She’d seen it herself and, of course, Remy had threatened her with it when she had balked at going to Spain with him.
But Gabriel had said the word marriage, and all she could see was the hurt and anger and betrayal in Claude’s eyes from the night before.
She wanted more than anything to believe their days and nights could continue as they had done, full of passion and pleasure and companionship, but she knew better. He could promise her anything, but he could not promise to heal Claude’s wounds. Once, long ago, she’d chosen a husband’s wishes above what she’d known was best for her son. She would not do so again.
Or Claude might be lost for ever.
Gabriel, his back still to her, buttoned his coat, his scarlet uniform coat, the coat he would wear in the battle when the Allied forces met Napoleon’s army, when this man who had given her so much happiness would face her son, who knew nothing of what it was to fight in a battle.
Men died in battle.
For the thousandth time she prayed that God would spare Claude’s life. She prayed for Gabriel, as well.
Even though she would never see him again.
He walked to the door without looking at her. Her legs trembled and the room seemed to close in on her.
He opened the door, but turned to her. “Goodbye, Emmaline.” His voice was so soft she could hardly hear him.
A moment later he was gone.
Wanting to sink to the floor in a miserable heap, Emmaline instead forced herself to square her shoulders, to tackle the chores that needed finishing before she opened the shop. She started for the kitchen to wash the dishes, but something on the dining table caught her eye.
A small black-velvet box.
Chapter Five
Gabe made his way back to his hotel as if wearing blinders, noticing no one and nothing, not even the weather. On previous mornings, he’d savoured this same walk, enjoying all the sights and sounds, savouring the fresh morning air. This morning his mind was as mechanical as an automaton, turning it over and over that Emmaline was lost to him.
Back in his room at the Hôtel de Flandre Gabe shaved and changed. He would regain control of his emotions, he told himself. There were plenty of women in the world besides Emmaline, women with whom to share brief moments of pleasure. It would be enough. No longer would he dream of a home, a wife, a family. He would remain in the army where he belonged.
Conjuring up visions of another life had been a momentary lapse of sanity.
As a soldier he had one duty now. For Emmaline he had compromised that duty, delaying the report that the French were near, but he would delay no longer.
Gabe went straight to the Allied Army headquarters. As he entered the white-stone building, the two men he least desired to encounter walked towards him: Edwin Tranville, the man who’d tried to rape Emmaline, and his father, General Lord Tranville. The general had managed to inherit a title since Gabe had last seen him.
“What are you doing here, Deane?” the general barked. As a greeting, it was one of Tranville’s most cordial. His son, whose face bore a scar from his temple to his mouth, created by Emmaline’s knife, did not even bother to acknowledge him.
“Sir.” Gabe bowed to the general, a respect the man did not deserve. “I need to see Wellington or one of his aides-de-camp.”
“You?” Tranville’s brows rose. “What reason could you possibly have to see the Duke or his aides?”
If Tranville had not been Gabe’s superior officer, he would not have replied. “The French army has crossed into Belgium.”
Tranville frowned. “How can you know that? What evidence do you have?”
“I encountered a French soldier in the city last night.” This was wasting Gabe’s time.
Tranville’s eyes narrowed. “Encountered? Where?”
Gabe glanced from the general to his son, who was now leaning against the wall, as if needing it to keep him upright. How much did Edwin remember about that night in Badajoz? Gabe wondered. Had he told his father about it?
No matter what, Gabe refused to lead them to Emmaline. “I saw him on the street.”
Tranville laughed. “On the street? Not having a casual stroll through the Parc? Do not be a damned fool. If you saw anything at all, it was probably a Dutch infantryman.”
“I did not mistake the uniform. The
man was not desiring to be seen and why would a Dutch infantryman be trying to hide?”
Why did he even bother arguing with Tranville? Gabe did not care if Tranville believed him or not. “In any event, I feel it is my duty to report it.”
Tranville’s nostrils flared. “Do not mention this to Wellington. Do not waste his Grace’s time.”
Gabe shrugged. “To one of his aides, then.”
Tranville huffed. “You will say nothing. Am I making myself clear? Your duty has been discharged by making your report to me.”
Gabe persisted. “And you will pass on this information?”
The general’s voice rose. “As I am your superior officer, you will not question what I will or will not do. The Duchess of Richmond is giving a ball tonight, in case you did not know, and I will not have his Grace and other gentlemen distracted by this foolishness.” He emphasized the word gentlemen.
When General Tranville became Gabe’s superior officer, he had made certain that Gabe did not rise in rank past captain. The general did not believe in field promotions or those based on merit. Gabe had come from the merchant class and only true gentlemen advanced the proper way, by purchasing a higher rank. It was a matter of pride to Gabe that he did not advance through purchase, although his family, and now he, could have afforded it.
Tranville waved a dismissive hand. “Go see to your men or whatever nonsense you must attend to. You can have no further business here.”
A string of invectives rushed to the tip of Gabe’s tongue. He clamped his teeth together.
“Yes, sir!” he responded, bowing and performing a precise about-face.
Gabe walked away, keeping a slow pace so that Tranville would not suspect he’d been roused to anger.
As he reached the door to the outside, he heard Edwin drawl, “How very tiresome.”
Later that evening Gabe learned his information had been accurate and that General Tranville had not passed it on. Wellington heard about Napoleon’s march towards Brussels at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, a good twelve hours after Gabriel reported it to Tranville. Wellington was said to have remarked, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.”
Gabe would have saved Wellington half that time.
The next day Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, joined other Allied forces at Quatre Bras where they met the French. How quickly it all came back, the pounding of cannon, the thundering of horses, battle cries and wounded screams, a terrible, familiar world, more real to Gabe than his idyll at Brussels. The fighting was hard, but almost comforting in its familiarity.
Musket volleys assaulted Gabe and his men. Six times steel-helmeted cuirassiers charged at them with slashing swords.
As Gabe yelled to his soldiers to stand fast, he scanned the French cavalry thundering towards them. Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Would Gabe see her son struck down? Would his own sword be forced to do the deed?
The weather turned foul. Black storm clouds rolled in and soon thunder and lightning competed with the roar of cannon. Late in the battle Gabe glimpsed the cuirassiers charging upon the 69th Regiment, seizing their colours. Feeling traitorous, Gabe blew out a relieved breath. If the French cuirassiers had been vanquished, Claude would have had a greater chance of being one of the casualties. Gabe prayed Claude had survived.
For Emmaline’s sake.
The battle ended in a great deal of mud, with neither side the victor, and both the Allies and the French retreated.
The following day Gabe’s regiment marched to a location Wellington had chosen to next engage Napoleon, near a village called Waterloo.
That night the rain continued to fall in thick, unrelenting sheets, soaking the earth into mud. Gabe and Allan Landon, now a captain like himself, were fortunate to share a reasonably dry billet with another officer. After Badajoz, Gabe had become good friends with Landon, although their temperaments and backgrounds were often directly opposed to each other. Landon, with his rigid sense of right and wrong, came from an aristocratic family and had, God help him, political ambitions. Gabe would rather impale himself on his sword than deal with politics.
Good thing he had never told Landon about partaking of the spoils of war. At Vittoria, in Spain, Napoleon’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte, had fled in panic, abandoning his riches, which were scattered across a field, tempting even the most honest of men. Gabe, like countless other soldiers, had filled his pockets. Not Landon, though. Landon had been appalled.
The shack’s roof pounded with the rain. Gabe and Landon huddled near their small fire that gave them little relief from the chill.
One of the junior officers, streams of water dripping off the capes of his cloak, appeared in their doorway of their shack. “General Tranville wants to see you, Captains.”
Gabe groaned. “More nonsense. I’ll make a wager with you.”
Landon clapped him on the back. “You know I never gamble.”
They wrapped themselves in their cloaks and dashed through the downpour to the peasant’s hut that Tranville had made his billet.
“Mind your boots! Mind your boots!” Tranville shouted as they entered. Edwin, a sour look on his scarred face, manned the door.
They cleaned as much of the mud off as they could, the rain sneaking down the collars of their coats. After closing the door behind them, Edwin took a swig from a flask. Some sort of spirits, Gabe reckoned.
Tranville barked orders at them, nothing more than mere posturing, however.
He fixed the men with what he must have thought was a steely glare. “I’ll have no laggardly behaviour, do you hear? You tell your men they are to hop to or they’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, sir!” chirped a young lieutenant.
Gabe put on his most bland expression. He could endure Tranville for this brief period, but only because it was warm and dry in the hut.
“Landon,” Tranville went on, “I want you to find Picton tonight. See if he has any message for me.”
General Picton was the commander of the 5th Division of which the Royal Scots were a part. Landon’s task was to carry messages for Picton and Tranville during the battle, but it was ridiculous to send Landon out in this weather merely on the off chance Picton might have a message.
Landon must have had the same reaction. He glanced over to the small window, its wooden shutters clattering from the wind and rain. “Yes, sir.”
“And stay available to me tomorrow. I may need you during the battle.”
Landon knew that already, of course. “Yes, sir.”
Tranville nodded in obvious approval. His gaze drifted to Gabe and his lips pursed, but luckily his glance continued to his son, who was sitting on a stool sneaking sips from his flask.
There was a knock on the door and Tranville signalled for Edwin to open it. With a desultory expression, Edwin complied.
“Oh, Good God,” Edwin drawled, stepping aside.
Jack Vernon, the ensign—now lieutenant—who’d been with them in Badajoz, stood in the doorway.
Gabe poked Landon to call his attention to Vernon. He noticed that Tranville caught his gesture and quickly erased any expression from his face.
Vernon slanted a glance at Gabe and Landon before turning back to Tranville and handing him a message.
Tranville snatched the paper from Vernon’s hand and snapped at him, “You will wait for my reply.”
Gabe exchanged another glance with Landon. This was not the first time Vernon and Tranville had encountered each other, obviously. Whatever had transpired between them had left them acrimonious.
Tranville stretched his arm and seemed to be writing as slowly as he could. He dragged out this interaction with Vernon, presuming it would annoy the lieutenant, no doubt. Finally Tranville said, “Leave now.”
Landon spoke up, “With your permission, I’ll leave now, as well.”
“Go.” He waved him away.
Vernon left, Landon right behi
nd him.
“Do you have further need of me?” asked Gabe.
“Of course not,” snapped Tranville. “All of you go.”
Once outside Tranville’s billet, Landon and Gabe pulled Vernon aside. “Do you have time for some tea?” Landon asked.
Vernon nodded gratefully.
They led him through the rain to the shack and heated a kettle on the small fire. The third officer in the billet lay snoring in a corner.