Trumpets blaring and regimental flags flapping, a roar arose from eight hundred throats as the men rose in their saddles and leaned over their galloping mounts’ necks, sabres gleaming in the sunset. Mud flying everywhere, Brandon’s Brigade rode towards destiny.
Chapter 28
Pain.
His whole existence was confusion. He was blisteringly hot and then bitingly cold. He was wet with sweat and then dry and feverish. The sky was startlingly bright and then inky darkness. There were horrific screams, there were quiet murmurings, and there was deathly silence. But always there was pain—waves of pain of varying intensity.
The last thing he could remember clearly was the charge. It was a riot of noise and images and smells. The brilliant colors of the uniforms slashed against the gray mist as his horse slammed into the enemy. He struck one cuirassier down, the man’s shiny breastplate offering little protection against his sabre. He ducked just as another fired a pistol, and in the next instant, his sword made quick work of him. Again and again, he struck at men and horses, his arm rising up and slashing down a thousand times, his charger firmly beneath him as he worked like a machine.
And then—everything changed. The left side of his body exploded in pain. After that—blackness.
The rest was a dream—nay, a nightmare. A crushing weight held him down, and wet mud coated his face for what seemed an eternity. Night became day. Shadowy figures moved about him. Loud shouts and gentle arms lifted him. Lifted him—every movement blazing agony. He wondered whether it was his own voice screaming—then blessed blackness again.
The nightmare was complete when he awoke to find a stub where his left arm used to be.
He drifted in a dream world where he could escape the hot, painful fog for the mist of gentle memory. Father, mother, brothers—his lady! An angel with dark hair and kind eyes, smiling at him, touching him, loving him, comforting him, whispering again and again that all would be well. He lived for that dream world. He fought hard not to leave it, because all that awaited him in the other world was unending pain.
He wondered—was he dead? Was this heaven?
The pain would return, and he cried out for the angel—again and again and again.
* * *
A rough shaking of his cot woke him. He opened his eyes, and above him was the orderly who attended him—a man he had come to hate—grasping the end of the cot.
“’Ere we go,” the man said to his companion, who had a similar hold on the foot of the cot. They lifted the patient and his cot and began to make their way through the hospital ward.
Sudden fear lanced through the patient. “What is happening? Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t ya worry none, Colonel,” said the orderly carelessly. His tone was flat, affected only by the efforts of his current task. It held no concern for the man on the cot. He might as well have been meat. “You’re not fur the surgeon today, no. Ya got visitors, like. Got ta pretty ya up fur th’ quality.”
The sun outside was painfully glaring, so he draped his good arm over his eyes and bore the painful transit without a word of protest. Not only was it beneath an officer to complain, it would not have done a bit of good. His damn orderly had not a drop of human kindness in his black heart, he was sure of it. They were soon inside a building near the field of tents that made up the hospital outside of Brussels, and after maneuvering down a hallway, his bearers deposited him in a small room.
His orderly began to wipe his face with a wet cloth while the other tucked a fresh blanket about his body. Such were the degradations he suffered during his month in this place that he considered a clean blanket a luxury.
The orderly cursed. “Them bandages need changin’.” He turned to his partner. “Nate, step over ta th’ dispensary and fetch some new cloths. I’ve got ta clean this one up.” Nate went out the door, leaving it ajar. Meanwhile, the man returned to his chore and not at all mildly. “Damn, you’re a dirty one, ain’t ya?”
“Here now, man—gently, if you please!” cried a voice that was somewhat familiar—proud and deep, a voice used to instant obedience. The patient knew that voice, but from where?
For the first time in weeks, Colonel Sir John Buford opened his eyes willingly. At the door were three people—two gentlemen and a lady. The men were instantly dismissed from Buford’s attention; he focused only on the lady. She was dressed in traveling clothes, black hair peeking from under a bonnet. Her eyes were green and wet. Tender lips half-hidden by one small, gloved hand moved wordlessly. Tears ran down her cheek along skin he knew was as soft as velvet. The most dear, the most beautiful face in the world.
He gasped and croaked, “Ca… Caroline?”
Lady Caroline Buford made a sound like a hiccup. She smiled—a very teary smile—before her countenance crumbled. With a groan, she dashed to his side, pushed away the orderly, knelt, and buried her face in his chest.
“Oh, John!” she cried. “Oh, thank heaven, my John, my John.”
Weakly, Buford raised his good arm and ran the fingers of his hand over her bonnet. “Caro, Caro… what are you doing here? How?” He forced his eyes from his wife to look at the gentlemen standing by. “By God!”
They were Philip Buford and Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“By God,” he said again. “How came you to be here? Am I not still in Brussels?”
Philip knelt beside Caroline, and Buford reluctantly gave up his attentions to his wife to grasp his brother’s hand. “It is Darcy we must thank for our transport here. Yes, this is Brussels, but you shall not be here much longer. We have come to take you home.”
“Home? Home to England?”
“As soon as we get you to Antwerp and aboard the boat—yes.”
Buford turned his attention to the weeping woman on his chest. “Caro, my love, this is a miracle.” His hand left Philip’s and slid under Caroline’s bonnet. “A miracle—the babe!” Buford’s eyes shot wide open. “The babe! You must leave this instant! There is disease here!” Panicked, he turned to the others. “You must get her out of here!”
She tightened her grip on her husband. “No, I will not leave you!”
“Caroline, you must!” He looked to the others. “Help me!”
“Do not concern yourself, John,” said Philip. “We leave this very day. All will be well.”
Meanwhile, Darcy spoke to the orderly. “We have papers that allow us to leave with Sir John. You will gather his things and bring them to our carriage.”
The orderly frowned. “See ’ere, I ain’t his servant!”
Darcy’s voice was cold and sharp. “I have your orders. You will be paid for your services. However, if anything is found missing from the colonel’s belongings, it will go badly for you.”
“I can’t be held responsible fur that!” the orderly complained.
Darcy raised his chin. “Then I would be thorough if I were you.” Darcy jerked his head towards the door. The orderly, completely cowed, quickly left.
Caroline turned, sniffed, and said with a small smile, “Bravo, Darcy. I could not have done better myself.”
Two spots of color graced Darcy’s cheeks, but he only nodded his head. “Mr. Buford and I will see to the arrangements for our departure. We will return shortly.” Philip gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze and left with Darcy.
Buford stared deeply into his wife’s pale face. He could read the revulsion clearly written upon it. “Caroline, you should not have come.”
“Why not? I bore the voyage well, and the babe is in no danger.”
It cost him some hurt, but Buford turned his head away anyway. “You should not see me… like this.”
“John, I had to come.”
All the fears that had built up inside him since the battle now burst out. “What kind of husband can I be to you? I am but half a man!” He held up his left arm, the sleeve pinned back over the stump the surgeon left. “Look at me! Look at the wreck I have become! Left arm gone, face scarred, hip slashed wide open. I do not know if I w
ill even stand again!” He did not grieve for himself; he accepted his wounds as payment for his mistrust of and infidelity to his wife. He had committed great sins against his marriage, and he earned every iota of pain he now suffered. The tears that ran unheeded down his battered face were for everything that Caroline had lost—a strong, faithful, useful husband who could provide for and protect his family. “You deserve better than me.”
His wife’s wet eyes went wide with hurt. “What madness is this?”
“Caroline, you cannot even look at me without crying.”
Understanding flowed over her countenance. With fierce determination, Caroline grasped her husband’s good arm. “Now you see here, Colonel Buford!” she managed through her weeping. “I do not weep for me! I am pained beyond measure for you! I am in agony for what you have endured! Could I but bear this burden for you, I would! But since I cannot, I will have to bear it with you.”
“But you should not have to—”
“Is that not what I promised to you and God when we married? Do you think I will shirk my duty now? What a low opinion you have of me, sir!”
“You twist my words—”
“Do you really think I will abandon you now? God’s teeth, you are my very life. I will never leave you, my love—never!”
Buford wept without moderation. “Oh, Caro, my love!”
Caroline tried to kiss him, but he flinched. “Does it hurt?”
“No, but my face…”
She gently touched the undamaged right cheek. “Johnny, I kiss not your face—but you.”
Buford painfully tried to embrace her, but he could not. His left arm had been taken off at the elbow. “Damn it! I cannot take you into my arms!”
“Oh, Johnny,” she said, “do not concern yourself. I have arms enough for both of us.”
* * *
When Darcy and Philip returned, they found Lady Buford half lying over Sir John in a tender embrace. The two stepped back into the hallway and gave the couple a minute’s privacy before Philip coughed loudly.
“Is the carriage packed and ready, Philip?” came Caroline’s voice from within.
“No,” said Philip, “but it will be very soon.”
“Then come back when it is. And close the door.”
The two gentlemen looked at each other in embarrassment. Darcy reached out and pulled the door shut. He cleared his throat. “It is the least we can do.”
“Umm… yes,” agreed his companion. “Did I see some chairs on the porch?”
“I believe you did,” said Darcy. “I do not think it too warm to sit outside. Do you?”
“Not at all. Very pleasant today.”
“Yes. Well…” Darcy gestured towards the outside door.
The two made their way outside, took their seats, and watched the coachman load the carriage.
Chapter 29
Three colonels—one in red, two in blue—rode with the owner of the Darcy carriage through the streets of London on an uncommonly mild August afternoon. The four gentlemen were silent as the carriage made its way from the docks to the more fashionable part of town. Finally, the coachman brought it to a stop before the Buford townhouse. The gentlemen disembarked and climbed the few steps to the door. They were met in the foyer by the butler and Mrs. Albertine Buford.
Moments later, the group was shown into the sitting room. Awaiting them were two people: a lady in light blue and a gentleman wearing a black coat and breeches. The gentleman’s struggles to rise from the sofa caused his wife some distress. She made to help, but she was gently brushed aside.
“Now, leave off, Caroline,” grumbled Colonel Sir John Buford. “I will meet these guests on my two feet. I need no assistance.”
The four men watched as Buford slowly, shakily rose, his right hand tightly gripping a cane, while the sleeve of his left arm was pinned at his elbow. He clearly favored his right leg, and his once-handsome face was scarred and bandaged. Still, his bright blue eyes were clear and only slightly pained, and once on his feet, he looped the cane about his outstretched arm and made to shake each of his guests’ hands.
“Brandon, Fitzwilliam—well met! And Denny, too! By thunder, it is good to see you all again. Darcy, thank you for bringing them.”
While her husband greeted his friends, Caroline watched over him with pride. “Would you gentlemen please be seated?” she asked. “Colonel Brandon, how well you look in a Dragoon uniform! Blue becomes you, I think.” She then helped her husband retake his own seat.
“Caroline, may I introduce—” Buford looked again to be certain, “Colonel Denny? Congratulations, my friend!”
“Thank you, sir.”
Buford turned to Fitzwilliam and grinned. “I understand you are to get the Bath, Fitz. It could not happen to a better fellow!”
“Shall we call you Sir Richard, now?” asked Caroline.
Sir Richard laughed. “From you, I would prefer Richard or Fitz. I know I will never get anything else out of Buford!”
Sir John chuckled as his wife continued. “And you, Colonel Brandon—I thought you a brigadier.”
Brandon smiled. “It was my temporary rank during the occupation, my lady. I shall retire at my permanent rank, but with the Light Dragoons rather than the Life Guards.” He looked at Buford. “I will never wear any uniform except Dragoon blue from now on.”
Buford nodded in understanding. “So, tell me of your occupation duty in Paris. Was there any trouble?”
Caroline watched as Sir John conversed easily with his former comrades, now as dear to her as they were to her husband. In Brussels, she had learned that these three men searched the Waterloo battlefield relentlessly for hours for a sign of Sir John. They were the ones who carried his battered body back to the surgeons. If not for Brandon, Denny, and Fitzwilliam, Caroline knew she would be wearing black instead of light blue this night. These men saved her husband’s life. Tears pricked at her eyes.
The same thought must have occupied Mrs. Albertine Buford, as a sob escaped her lips as she rose slightly unsteadily to her feet. “If you gentlemen would excuse me,” she apologized, “I should see to the tea.” Lifting a hand, she forestalled her daughter. “No, my dear, stay and entertain your guests.”
The gentlemen were uneasy, and Sir John was concerned, but Caroline explained, “All is well, gentlemen. My mother is… very thankful for all you have done. She has lost so much already.”
The atmosphere sobered, and Sir Richard looked hard at Sir John. “Buford, I want you to know—we all want you to know that… well if you need anything, any assistance, you have but to ask.”
Brandon quieted Richard with a hand on his shoulder. “What Fitzwilliam means is that, as well as our friend, you are our comrade. Whatever you need done, we shall do it, if it be in our power. We swear it.” Colonel Denny nodded in agreement.
Buford’s face darkened, Darcy shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Caroline remembered her husband’s response to a similar offer from Darcy only a fortnight before. She prayed his reaction would not be as abrupt.
Buford spoke sharply. “I thank you for your kind offer, gentlemen, but I am not the useless cripple I appear, I assure you!”
Caroline took Buford’s hand. “John,” she whispered.
The two locked eyes, a message only the two of them could decipher flowed between them, and Buford’s countenance softened. “Forgive me, my friends.” He looked down, his eyes blinking. “I know you mean well, and I thank you for your kindness, but it is unnecessary.” He raised his face, his emotions back under control. “My days of soldiering are done, and I must find my own way in the world. It is not so bad; a man can do much with a bad leg and one arm. Besides, I have my rock with me.” With that, he kissed his blushing wife’s hand. “No better nurse ever lived, by God. She took care to understand every instruction from the physician. She made certain I exercised every day without fail and stood by my side the whole time, badgering me when I wanted to quit and making me rest if I pushed too hard. The only reason
I can stand today is because of her. A fine drillmaster she would make.”
Caroline was beet-red. “John, please!”
His response was to kiss her hand again, sigh, and smile at the others. “We shall return to Wales. Caroline and I will be with Mother in the dowager house. Buford Manor is being enlarged as we speak, and we shall remove there in the spring.”
He glanced at Caroline, who touched the six-month-along bulge in her midsection that her shawl had failed to conceal. “My child shall be raised as a Buford should—in Wales,” he vowed. “We shall be very comfortable. You must come and see us once we are established at Buford Manor.”
“Are you going to farm, sir?” asked Denny.
“No, I leave that to Philip. I have a fancy to stand for office once I recover my strength. I suppose one can give as good a speech in the Commons with one arm as two, eh, Darcy?”
“Do not bring me into this,” cried Darcy. “Politics has no attraction for me.” Darcy intended to leave that to his brother Tucker.
While the others shared a hearty laugh, Darcy’s eye fell upon Lady Buford. He could only marvel at the strange twists life could take. It was finally obvious to him that this woman was no longer the Caroline Bingley he had once known. That person was cold, grasping, and rude—a selfish member of the ton. But this lady was everything that person was not. During the whole of this terrible month, to his surprise, she had carried herself with dignity and grace, thinking only of others. Buford did not lie when he named Caroline as the most attentive of nurses. Darcy had been a witness to it, and he had to admit that he had underestimated the lady.
What was the difference? Had her soul been forged for the better in the fires of pain and anguish like the saints of old? He did not know. All he knew was that Elizabeth and he could not be fond of Miss Caroline Bingley, but that, for the rest of their lives, they would name Lady Caroline Buford among their dearest friends.
Caroline looked over at the door. “Frau Lippermann, ist der Tee bereit?”
“Ja, Frau Caroline. Here is de Kaffee.”
The Three Colonels Page 30