My Darling Caroline

by Adele Ashworth

  Instinctively Caroline clasped his hand tightly, shock giving way to intrigue. “Tell me what happened.”

  Brent felt fear well up inside of him again, as vivid as the day it had begun. Until now, the only person who knew of his battle in the pit of death was Davis, and although uncontrollable feelings of panic and hopelessness filled him, he still had the overwhelming urge to confide in his wife.

  Rosalyn played more than ten feet away. She couldn’t hear him, but he wouldn’t have spoken of Waterloo with her any closer. There was no one else around, and Caroline, looking innocent and lovely just as she was, sat patiently holding his hand. He pulled himself up to sit straight and began at the beginning.

  “I’d been in France for nearly two years when I met a man called Philip Rouselle, a low-ranking officer in the French military. I immediately disliked him because of his nature—always suspicious, shrewd, greedy, doing what ever was necessary for personal advancement.

  “Philip followed my every move, and my guard was always up when he was around. What made him resent me, though, was my affair with Christine. She didn’t want him, she wanted me, and his ego was grand, Caroline.”

  He watched her closely but saw nothing except the slightest trace of tightness cross her mouth. In some very obscure manner, knowing that his wife held a dislike for his former mistress pleased him enormously.

  He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “For nearly three years Philip and I played a game of cat and mouse with each other, and finally, about a year ago, I discovered exactly what he was.”

  “What he was?” she whispered.

  He paused, looking out over the hills. “You have to know that much of my reason for seeing Christine over the years was personal. But although she seldom discussed government or political issues, she moved in those crowds and from time to time was an unsuspecting and knowledgeable in formant.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  Brent glanced at her quickly, then back to the meadow, deciding it best to ignore the biting comment and move on.

  “One…evening together, she accidentally said something that led me to believe that Philip might actually be my counterpart, a French intelligence agent and a hired killer. I checked the facts, and indeed, the man was everything I feared. He was handsome, highly intelligent, and trained to move in circles above his class or below it, speaking English as if it were his mother language. During all the years I worked for British intelligence, that man is the only one who ever suspected me of being something other than what I appeared, and it all came to a head last June during the fierce fighting at the Battle of Waterloo.”

  He needed to stop for a moment, allowing the calmness of the early afternoon to seep inside of him, the sunshine to soothe him. His wife said nothing but held his hand tightly as if afraid to let go, fully engrossed in his words.

  “Philip grew to hate me, Caroline,” he said bleakly, quietly, “because of Christine, because of Napoleon’s defeat and exile to Elba as if that were my doing, because I was English, because I refused to kill without honor, which he considered the gravest human weakness. He would kill ruthlessly and without feeling, striking those in his path regardless of age or sex, even those unable to defend themselves.”

  “Are—are you telling me you’ve killed people?” she asked shakily, shocked.

  There was no easy way to confess. He squeezed her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed her wrist gently. Gazing intently into large, dark orbs full of uncertainty, he boldly admitted what he knew she feared.

  “I am trained to kill with skill and efficiency, Caroline, and over the years I have done so.” He felt her try to pull away but he wouldn’t let go. With his free hand he firmly grasped her chin, forcing her to keep her eyes locked with his. “I have killed in defense and only those who have in some way jeopardized my life, my country, or my king. I would also, without question, kill to protect my family.”

  His tone became fierce, his gaze piercing. “But I swear to you, Caroline, on the life of my daughter, I would never kill, nor have I ever killed, randomly, unjustly, or without feeling as Philip has done. He would kill even Rosalyn without blinking an eye, without feeling anything, and certainly without honor, which is precisely where we differed.”

  She continued to look at him, and gradually he released her chin, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Then he dropped his hand from the softness of her face, raked his fingers through his hair, and turned his head to stare hard at the grass-covered ground before him.

  “During the battle at Waterloo I stayed deep in French territory, my cover intact, and worked on gaining a foothold for our forces. The Prussians had moved in from the east, and Napoleon’s troops, strong and heroic as they were, were divided. The English probably won the war because of this advantage.” He exhaled loudly. “The French went to work, their cavalry charging the English center, and I was caught in the middle of it.”

  He swallowed with difficulty, fighting the raging conflict inside. The pain was obviously evident, for at that moment Caroline scooted closer and placed his hand in her lap. He felt softness and warmth, smelled wild roses and the violet water only she wore, and still the remembrance clouded his mind, choking him.

  “Caroline—”

  She slowly stroked his hand with hers. “It’s all right.”

  He shook his head and continued to look at the ground in front of him. “It was a field of mass suffering, of men slowly dying in unbearable pain. I’d experienced war and certainly death before, knew what it looked like, and for that I was prepared. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened to me.” He drew a deep, shaky breath. “I saw Philip coming for me through the smoke and haze, attacking with vengeance, charging at me from the side before I could defend myself. He knocked me off my horse, hitting me in the temple with the butt of his pistol, stunning me, the pain shooting through my head as if a dagger had pierced my skull.”

  Bitterly he chuckled. “Hell came upon the French cavalry in the most peculiar way that day, Caroline. Because of the thick fog of gunpowder and dust surrounding us, nobody saw the trench until too late—a trench large and deep, virtually hidden in the brush. Suddenly men and horses began falling into it, some wounded, most of them dead. After several hours of fighting, the French began using the filling trench as a human bridge to encroach on the enemy.”

  “No…” she whispered.

  He looked back to see her beautiful eyes so expressive, wide with horror, her face white, wisps of dark brown hair stark against her skin and flying loosely in the breeze.

  Boldly he kept his eyes locked with hers. “Philip fought me, hitting me in the head with his pistol, over and over, until I fell into the trench, Caroline. Until I fell into a hole of dead and dying humans and horses, where I was covered with blood, with burned and torn flesh, with vomit and human waste. Where I heard the moans of the dying, the battle above, the screams, the terror. Where the smell was obscene, the weight of the dead and bleeding on top of me excruciating…”

  His nostrils flared, and he squeezed her hand. “I remained there, weak and dazed, for three full days and nights until I was certain the fighting had subsided and the French had retreated. Men lay beside me, on top of me, below me, moaning, bleeding, gaping at me through the stare of death.

  “And through it all I couldn’t move, could barely breathe. I drifted in and out of consciousness from lack of air, from the weight on top of me, nauseated from the pain in my head, from the smell of sickness and blood.”

  She shook her head, tears filling her eyes, now clear, round pools of shock. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension beneath his fingers, breathing deeply of the scent of the meadow to help erase the lingering smell of death. He never intended to be so graphic in his detail, but his wife needed to understand, and he wanted her to know everything, know the deepest part of him.

  “When I was finally able to break free,” he continued at last, quietly, brokenly, “I was so ill, so weak in mind and body, I could bar
ely move. During the course of several hours I tried to lift myself, stumbling over the remains of good and honest men as I attempted to climb out of the trench. At one point my arm seared right through a man’s body as if it were pudding, his rotting gut just…open and spilling out over my hand and through my fingers.” He shivered and looked down to the blanket. “Cold blood filled my eyes, and I couldn’t wipe it away. I couldn’t wipe it from my skin, my clothes, the smell and feel of it from my mind.

  “I fled by walking for miles, blindly and numbly during a cold and moonless night, but I didn’t know who’d won the battle or where to go. Eventually I came upon a farmer and his wife who let me stay with them for several days, recovering. When finally I felt physically ready to move on, I’d learned Wellington was decisively victorious and I joined the British camp. After two weeks of intense discussions and sleepless nights, I left France to return to England, to the safe haven of my home, my family.”

  He wiped his shaking hand over his face, fighting to stay in control, watching his wife as she tried to come to terms with what he was saying.

  He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Something inside of me snapped that day, as I lay motionless in the grave, and the only thing keeping me together and alive while I waited for the battle to end was remembering Rosalyn. I centered my thoughts on the little girl who needed me, and lying under a massacre of waste and blood and death, I realized how much I needed her. I suddenly felt important to someone, little and fragile as she was, and never again will I lose sight of that.”

  He squeezed her hand, his voice fervent. “She is the only thing precious in my life, Caroline, and she depends on me. Nobody except my daughter has ever depended on me for anything, and because of her I will never work like that again. My existence now has a purpose I clearly understand. Government policies, social order, and the fighting can all go to hell when it comes to what truly matters in my life, and Rosalyn is my life.”

  He stilled completely after that, his voice, his body, even his breathing, and Caroline found herself so moved by his words that for a moment she could do nothing but look into his eyes as tears spilled onto her cheeks. Only the strongest of men could withstand such inhumanity and live to tell about it, and at that moment she knew her husband was the strongest man she had ever known.

  “You’re so brave,” she whispered hoarsely, still unable to move her gaze or her body. She sat with a rigid back, throat closed tightly; then her hand reached up of its own accord and stroked his cheek. He just watched her for several seconds, then covered her hand with his and moved it to his mouth, lightly kissing her palm.

  “Now you understand why I need you so, Caroline,” he said huskily, passionately, her palm lightly resting against his lips. “You and my daughter will help me forget and move on. You and Rosalyn have given me beauty to behold, and true beauty will always outshine and envelop the fear within.”

  His words touched her deeply, his love for Rosalyn greater than she could have ever imagined. He was baring his soul to her at that moment as she read pain and honesty in the dark green depths of his eyes, and never in her life had she felt such a rush of tenderness toward another human being.

  As if reading her thoughts, he reached out and pulled her against his chest. She allowed herself to be led, moving into his arms, resting her palms on the softness of his shirt, kissing his cheek and neck without shame or second thought.

  He kissed her in return then, his lips brushing away the tears from her cheeks. Slowly she moved her head down to rest it on his lap, her body and thoughts calming as she stared out to the meadow and his beautiful little girl.

  They watched the child together in silence, her head resting on his thighs, his hand lightly stroking her neck. With the smell of flowers in the air and sunshine on her back, Caroline was certain she’d never felt so emotionally close to anyone in her life. With each passing week, she knew she was losing herself to her husband, and even with her mind centered, her thoughts controlled, for the first time ever she didn’t care.

  Suddenly, as if sensing the quietness of the moment, Rosalyn looked up and grinned. Then quickly she grabbed at something on the ground and ran to them, standing before them, hand held out.

  Caroline sat up and looked at the outstretched palm. In it sat a wild, red rose. Smiling, she closed her fists tightly in front of her chest and held them together, then released her fingers in an upward and outward motion—her gesture for a flower.

  Rosalyn watched her closely, then giggled and turned in a full circle. When she stopped she looked back into her eyes, held out her hand, and once more pointed to the rose.

  Caroline was cautious, not at all used to such concentration from the girl. After only a brief pause she again, deliberately, used her hands to form the flower gesture she’d created for Rosalyn’s benefit. And once again the girl pointed to the rose, more directly and forcefully, her face contorting with the beginnings of frustration.

  Now she was clearly dumbfounded. So apparently was her husband.

  “What does she want?” he quietly asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she whispered. Then her eyes brightened. “I want to try something, so don’t do anything to distract her.”

  That said, she raised herself on her knees so they could see eye to eye, and made little movements from the alphabet she had painstakingly created with her fingers, one for each letter, to spell the word rose.

  Rosalyn looked from her fingers to her father, then back to the flower in her palm. Then she pointed to herself.

  Caroline felt the first real flood of excitement. Quickly she placed her hand in the child’s line of sight again and spelled Rosalyn with the same finger movements, one for each letter.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m spelling her name.”

  “What?”

  “Shh…”

  After seconds of getting nothing but a puzzled look from the girl, she spelled it again, slowly, with more emphasis on each letter.

  The silence became deafening—even the breeze had stopped all movement—and Caroline, waiting for a reaction, had trouble forcing herself to remain still and breathe. Time ceased to exist until Rosalyn’s face suddenly illuminated brilliantly with comprehension. Her little mouth broke out into an enchanting grin as she pointed to her chest, then followed it with the gesture for flower.

  The two of them stared. Then Caroline nodded vehemently and fell back hard against the ground.

  Brent noticed instantly the change in his wife. Within seconds she’d become ashen and speechless as she gazed upon his daughter, and with that he swiftly pulled himself to his feet.

  “What is it, Caroline? What did she do?”

  She blinked hard and whispered, “She talked to me…”

  “What!”

  “Oh, God, Brent, she talked to me,” she repeated, dazed, still looking at Rosalyn, who stood in front of them, clutching her little blue dress, smiling coyly.

  He glanced from his wife to his daughter. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?” he asked slowly, skeptically.

  Caroline started giggling and crying at the same time, shaking her head in wonder. “She said ‘I’m a flower.’”

  His pulse began to race, and he could only bring himself to mumble, “‘I’m a flower?’”

  She clasped her hands together in glee, raised her eyes heavenward, then grabbed Rosalyn and hugged her fiercely. “She pointed to herself to say ‘I’ then made the gesture I showed her for flower.”

  Brent fell to his knees in front of them, no longer able to stand on his weak and trembling legs. “I don’t understand.”

  Caroline laughed and cried as she held his daughter against her chest. “She associated rose with Rosalyn, similar in spelling and both exquisitely beautiful.” She looked back to him with water-filled eyes, her husky voice rich and ecstatic. “I didn’t know if it would ever be clear for her, Brent, but it is. She used a gesture to communicate with
me, to talk to me, and if she said this, she can learn to say anything. She finally understands.”

  Wiping her tears with her fingers, Caroline stood and took Rosalyn’s hands. Then together they began jumping, laughing, and spinning around in the meadow.

  Brent covered his mouth with his palm, too choked to speak, and for the first time in his miserable life he felt tears fill his eyes—hot and stinging and blurring his vision. He blinked them away as fast as he could, staring at his incredible wife and beautiful daughter as they embraced each other and danced among the wildflowers.

  In all of his life, he’d never experienced a feeling like this, a surge of joy so powerful, so intense, it took his breath and melted his heart, bathing him in warmth. Only now, as he watched them in the meadow, did he fully realize exactly what his wife had done for him. He was alive today because of Rosalyn, because he loved her so deeply, and one day he would be able to tell her that because of Caroline.

  Suddenly he was on his feet, chasing after them, pouncing on them as he circled their waists with his arms to pull them to the ground, the three of them laughing, tumbling and clinging to each other as they rolled across the grass.

  “My girls,” he said in a voice rich with happiness. “My girls…” He nuzzled their necks, one at a time, both of them giggling and squirming beneath him.

  Caroline was the first to stop laughing, to stop moving as she rolled on top of him, hair flying, loose from its ribbon, one arm pinned under her husband, the other under Rosalyn, who was now at her side. She grinned, breathing rapidly, releasing her daughter, then wiping her hair from her eyes to see his face.

  The look he gave her was beautiful, warm, and filled with pleasure. He was breathing fast, holding her tightly, but his eyes were what grabbed her attention. They were bright and charged with emotion, dark green orbs of longing and thankfulness.

  Rosalyn scrambled to her feet and raced toward the house. Caroline didn’t notice, and neither did Brent.