by Sarah Winn
WOUNDED WARRIORS OF THE CRIMEAN WAR
BOOK 3:
THE WIDOW AND THE WARRIOR
by
Sarah Winn
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
Published by
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC
Copyright © 2017 by SARAH WINN
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68299-264-7
Credits
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin
Editor: Dave Field
Printed in the United States of America
Other Books by Author Available at Torrid Books:
www.torridbooks.com
and
Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
A Countess of Convenience
Hell on Women
Wounded Warriors
of the Crimean War Series
Book One: The Governess and the Guardian
Book Two: The Socialite and the Soldier
Dedication
To the staff of The Oaks at Mayview for nursing me back to the real world and my writing.
Chapter 1
“It’s about time,” Bill Blake muttered as the whistle blew and the train began to slowly chug forward. He hated these damn local trains that stopped at every village along the way. At this pace, it would take them all day to get to Birmingham.
As the train inched forward, he saw a woman standing on the platform and wearing a long, black cloak with a raised hood covering her head. The summer weather did not call for such heavy clothing, and she was standing very still, facing away from the train. Could that be the woman he was following? She had not been wearing a cloak when she got on the train, but she had luggage that could have held one. But his woman had been traveling with a small boy and there was no boy beside her. Was she concealing him in front of her body?
But she had bought a ticket for Birmingham, he had stood close enough to hear what she said to the ticket agent. Had he gotten too close—given himself away? As the train pulled even with the woman, he glanced at the small pile of luggage beside her. Damn! The oddly shaped little case that held her violin was sitting on top of the pile. He lurched for the door handle, but of course, the safety lock was in place. The train rolled past her, picking up speed, and she turned her body to keep her back fully toward him. The tricky bitch!
He muttered curses. The old couple sharing his compartment looked at him with disapproving frowns, so he pressed his thin lips together, but anger still roiled through him. Finding that woman had been the greatest stroke of luck he’d ever had. That rich bastard, Silas Coyler, had promised Bill two hundred pounds if he could find her and help him get the kid away from her. With that money Bill could get a new start in his miserable life. He might even persuade Dory to marry him.
The train picked up speed. The platform was almost out of sight. What was the name of that town? He pressed his face against the window until he saw the sign. Hemsley. He’d never heard of it, but he’d get off the train at the next stop and come back here. He had found her in London. Surely, he could find her in a small town, and the next time he wouldn’t underestimate her.
Chapter 2
Gerald stuffed the leather replica of a human arm into the right sleeve of his shirt. Then he spread the garment, with the arm in it, on the bed, being careful to arrange the leather straps attached to the arm in the right positions so they could be fastened properly. When he finished that task, he sat on the side of the bed and lowered his back down toward the shirt, until he could stuff the stump of his right arm into the hollow top of the leather prosthesis.
Now came the trickiest part of the process, slipping the strap attached to the front and back of the prosthesis over his shoulder, without greatly disturbing the straps attached to the sides of that strap. When this was accomplished, he fumbled with the longer straps until he had encircled his chest and slipped one end of a strap through the buckle positioned near the center of his chest.
After making sure the strap around his chest was tight enough, he leaned up a bit and reached back searching for the opening of the left sleeve with his left hand. It took a bit of awkward maneuvering before he finally got his arm mostly into the sleeve, but with the sleeve covering his hand, he could no longer use it, so he had to scrape his left shoulder against the bed and move the shirt up enough to free his hand.
By the time, he could sit on the side of the bed and work at fastening buttons with his clumsy left hand, he was thoroughly disgruntled. Why didn’t he just let old Mr. Moore help him every morning? If Gerald were a rich man, having a valet dress him would be perfectly acceptable behavior. Of course, he wasn’t rich, and considering the way this wonderful estate he had inherited was eating money, he never would be.
Why had he decided to run a riding academy for the sons of the wealthy? Those boys grew up on their families’ country estates and had horses at their beck and call all their lives. He was providing a service no one needed.
“Captain—Captain Osborne.” Was that Mrs. Moore’s calling up from the floor below?
Gerald stepped over and opened his door so he could hear better. “What is it?”
“You got a visitor—a lady!”
Perhaps someone had come to inquire about riding lessons. “I’ll be right down.”
He struggled into a coat, hoping being properly dressed would make a better impression on a potential customer. Of course, the way Mrs. Moore had shouted up the stairs for him had pretty well settled that account. He really should say something to her, but she had worked for his aunt for thirty years before Gerald inherited the house, so he found it hard to reprimand a woman who had given him cookies when he was a little boy.
About halfway down the stairs, the figure of a woman and a small boy came into view. Behind them were several pieces of luggage. Surely, someone wasn’t planning to drop off an unregistered student. Anyway, that boy was far too young to take the kind of riding lessons Gerald offered. He reached the hallway. The woman turned her head so he got a full view of her face. There was something familiar about the dark hair that formed a point in the center of her forehead, the high, softly rounded cheeks, and the pink, bow-shaped mouth. And yet he could not recall ever meeting her.
“Are you Captain Osborne?” she asked in a thin voice.
“Yes. Have we met before?”
“No. My husband served under your command in the Crimea. Sergeant Philip Coyler.”
Suddenly Gerald heard the booming of cannon and smelled the stench of blood and felt his strength ebbing away. He reached out and steadied himself against the wall and forced his mind back to the present. Now he remembered where he had seen this woman. Sergeant Coyler always carried a miniature portrait of her and was proud to show it to his comrades in arms. “Ah—ah—your husband was the best sergeant who ever served under me, Mrs. Coyler. I’m sorry he didn’t make it back.”<
br />
Does she know how her husband died?
“Yes, well—I was on the train and saw that we were coming into Hemsley, and I remembered seeing a notice in the newspaper about you opening a riding school nearby. Philip wrote such nice things about you in his letters, that I hoped I might apply to you for assistance.”
Gerald snapped to attention as he realized the woman’s voice was trembling—she seemed near tears. The little boy was looking up at her with an alarmed expression, and Mrs. Moore, with her arms folded over her bulbous stomach, was watching the scene with great interest.
Gerald forced a smile and nodded toward the boy. “I take it this young man is Sergeant Coyler’s son. Tommy, isn’t it?”
“Toby,” the woman corrected. “Tobias.”
“I knew it was something that started with a T.” Gerald addressed the boy. “Your father and I served together in the war. He frequently spoke fondly of you and your mother.”
The boy nodded in such a vague way that Gerald wondered if he even remembered his father. How long had it been? Two years? Two and a half? My God! Gerald should have looked this woman up months ago. He should have been doing all he could to help her and Coyler’s son. But now she had come to him, apparently in need. Here was his chance to make a payment on the huge debt he owed her husband.
He turned toward his cook and sometime housekeeper. “Mrs. Moore, could you take Toby to the kitchen and find him a snack while I talk with his mother?”
Surprisingly, the woman smiled at Toby and said, “I surely can. Come with me, young man, and I’ll find you a sweet treat.”
The boy looked first at Mrs. Moore and then at his mother. She nodded and patted his shoulder. “You go with the nice woman. I’ll be here talking with Captain Osborne.”
The boy nodded and followed Mrs. Moore toward the back of the house. Gerald gestured toward the parlor. “Let’s sit down, Mrs. Coyler, and you can tell about your problem.”
She led the way into the room, and he hurried over to pull back the drapes on the nearest window and let some light into this rarely used room. As sunlight streamed through the window, it illuminated dust motes floating in the air and his aunt’s porcelain bric-a-brac that covered every flat surface.
After sitting on the sofa, Mrs. Coyler undid the ties to her bonnet, removed it, and placed it beside her. Most of her hair was coiled in thick braids at the base of her neck, but the smooth hair on the sides of her head was so black that it had a bluish sheen.
Gerald sat on a chair across from her. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Coyler?”
She took a deep breath and looked at him with large brown eyes. “Yesterday I received a notice to report today to one of the magistrates in my borough. I was ordered to bring Toby and to be prepared to answer charges that I am an unfit mother.” Her voice wobbled at bit on those last words. “The charges were brought by Toby’s grandfather.”
“His grandfather?” Gerald bristled with indignation. “Have you had a disagreement with the man?”
“I’ve never met him. Philip left home and joined the army when he was eighteen-years-old, because his father was insisting he work in coal mines. The father disowned him for leaving home. He even prevented Phillip from corresponding with his mother. I didn’t think Mr. Coyler even knew Toby and I existed, and after the things Philip told me about his father, I cannot let such a cruel man get custody of my son. I didn’t know how to stop him, so I decided to seek help from my aunt and uncle who live in Birmingham.
“At the station in London, I saw a man watching Toby and me. I recognized him as someone who had been loitering in my neighborhood for the last week or so. I had thought he was a new tenant in one of the boarding houses in the neighborhood, but when he followed us to the platform, I realized he must have been hired to watch us.”
The woman’s speech was rushed and her voice quavered. “When the train approached Hemsley, I remembered what I had read about you and got off at the last possible moment. I know it is a great imposition to come to you, but if you could help me get to Birmingham in such a way that I would not lead the hounds to my aunt’s door, I would be most grateful.”
Gerald stared at her in consternation. This was a terrible situation. “What makes you think the courts would take custody from you and give it to the grandfather?”
She raised her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “Mr. Coyler can hire expensive lawyers. I can’t afford to do that.”
“I thought he was a coal miner.”
“He started in the mines as a boy. Now he owns them. That’s why he wanted Philip to work in one, so he’d know how to take over the business someday. But Philip hated being shut up underground. He certainly wouldn’t want that to happen to Toby.”
For a moment, Gerald pictured Sergeant Coyler on horseback, bent over the neck of his mount as he urged the animal to greater speed. Even though he was not an officer, he had been one of the finest horsemen Gerald had ever seen. It truly would have been a sin to cage such a man in a dark, cramped mine. Nor should such a fate befall his son.
Gerald culled through what he’d just been told, looking for possible solutions to the woman’s problem. “Who was the man following you? Do you think he was a constable?”
Mrs. Coyler shrugged. “I don’t know. He dressed like an ordinary workman, and seemed to have nothing to do but watch us. I wouldn’t think an official constable would be able to devote all of his time to one case. Do you?”
Gerald didn’t bother to answer her. “Do you think he saw you get off the train?”
“I don’t know. I waited until the last minute and put on this cloak before I got off. Afterward, I kept my back turned toward the train and Toby in front of me. I know the man didn’t get off the train in Hemsley, but he might have recognized me as the train left the station.”
Gerald realized he was absent-mindedly thumping the wooden index finger on his right hand and immediately stopped. This was no time to distract himself with nervous habits. “The thing is, Mrs. Coyler, sooner or later, he is going to realize you are no longer on the train and start to backtrack. If he goes all the way to Birmingham before he realizes you are gone, it could take him days to get back here, but if he recognized you on the depot platform he will get off at the next stop and be here in a matter of hours.”
Wrinkles formed between her eyes. “Could—could you hide us?”
Could a one-armed man and few elderly servants protect her? Gerald shook his head. “Hemsley is a small town. You can be sure people noticed you and where you went. If the man following you has some sort of legal standing, he will bring the local constable into this, and I cannot refuse him entry into the house.”
A high-pitched groan escaped her trembling lips, and Gerald realized how close the poor woman was to a total breakdown. “Do not worry, ma’am. I will do all in my power to protect you and your son, and the best thing we can do now is to leave this place. I have a friend who lives on a large estate half-a-day’s ride from here. He will surely give us sanctuary, and if we travel in a buggy on back roads, no one will know where we’ve gone.”
Now that he had a plan, Gerald snapped into action. He ushered Mrs. Coyler back to the kitchen to be with her son while he yelled for Mr. Moore to help him pack. Once he’d selected the clothing he would take, Gerald left the older man to finish the task and hurried down to the stable. He asked Tully to hitch the single-seat phaeton, and then talked to Mr. Samuel about what should be done with the new horses that had been delivered just the day before.
“I’m sorry to have to be away at this time, but the widow of a man I served with in the Crimea needs my assistance.”
“Don’t worry about it, Captain. The horses need time to settle in before any real training can start. Tully, Jim, and I can handle that.”
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be away. Don’t let Jim do any jumping with the new horses. His riding skills have improved, but he’s not ready for that.”
Mr. Sam, who had spent years training riders d
uring his career in the army, gave Gerald the patient grimace he used when he thought his employer had said something silly. Fortunately, Tully drove the phaeton up just then, so Gerald was able to conclude the conversation and climb into the buggy for the ride back to the house. He asked Tully to let him off at the back of the house, near the kitchen, and then drive around to the front and wait for him.
It occurred to him that he always rode his horse when going to Firthley Hall. He had not driven a buggy that distance since losing his arm. Should he ask one of the men to come along to do the driving? The stablemen were all needed here. He couldn’t ask Mr. Moore to come without telling his wife where they were going, and Gerald didn’t want anyone here to have that information in case someone came asking questions. Besides, the phaeton wasn’t big enough for three adults and a child. He’d have to do the driving himself.
By the time, he had collected his passengers and the hamper Mrs. Moore had packed for their lunch, and escorted the Coylers to the front driveway, Mr. Moore had loaded both his and his passengers’ luggage into the back of the buggy. Once everyone was settled in the buggy’s seat, Gerald gave Tully a few more orders about things to be done in the stables, and then shook the reins over the horse’s back.
* * * *
Ellen hoped the Captain was not becoming irritated by the ways of a five-year-old boy on a long ride in an open buggy. The single-seat phaeton did have a canvas cover that shaded them from the sun’s rays, but for safety’s sake Toby had to ride between the two adults, and if he were not leaning heavily against her, he was squirming and chattering about every bird and cow they passed.
Toby was normally well-behaved for a boy of his age, but Ellen knew that being awakened at the crack of dawn, seeing the tearful leave-taking between his mother and their landlady, and then being suddenly jerked off a train and taken among total strangers had upset him. Toby expressed his misgivings through unceasing activity.