Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

by Diane Gaston

But Ariana did not wish to be free. In her mind she was already bound to him.

  Ariana performed the play and used the second Cleopatra portrait, the near-naked one, to advertise her role in it. The painting was displayed in the foyer of the theatre and its engravings appeared on handbills, in print shops and in magazines. The scandal it created filled the theatre seats.

  It was soon forgotten. Napoleon’s return drove all else from everyone’s minds.

  As soon as Antony and Cleopatra closed, Ariana turned down all future roles and instead made plans to travel to Brussels. Half of London was travelling there, why not she? At least in Brussels she’d have a chance to spend more time with Jack again, even if only an hour, a day, a week.

  Or so she had thought.

  Jack’s mother had insisted upon coming with her, and Ariana had been unable to refuse her after causing the woman so much misery. The two ladies sat opposite each other now in the crowded carriage bound for Brussels. Above the din of the creaking springs and clopping hooves could be heard the sounds of cannon fire.

  The battle had begun and Jack was very likely in it. He’d be enduring the sort of horror Ariana had seen in the battle paintings against his bedchamber wall.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Mrs Vernon flinched and covered her mouth with her hand.

  Major Wylie, an aide-de-camp of Wellington’s who was travelling in the carriage with them, patted her arm. ‘Do not fear, ma’am. The guns are at least ten to twenty miles distant.’

  Ariana glanced out of the carriage window. All day long they had seen throngs of people travelling in the opposite direction, away from Brussels. Now the crowd of travellers was even thicker.

  ‘Major, if there is nothing to fear, why are all these people leaving Brussels?’ she asked.

  ‘I questioned some of them at the last posting inn.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘They are merely being cautious. There are many who have remained in the city. Why, the Duchess of Richmond was said to have given a ball last night. Wellington attended it. He does not sound worried, does he?’

  Ariana was not convinced.

  The quaint hamlets and farmland receded and soon they entered the city streets of Brussels.

  ‘No turning back now,’ she murmured.

  The carriage made its way up a long, winding hill, past large ornamented houses, shops sporting signs written in French, and a majestic cathedral. The summit of the hill was the finest area of the city, where the Parc of Brussels was surrounded by the Palace of the Prince of Orange and extraordinary public buildings.

  Major Wylie offered to help them procure rooms at the Hôtel de Flandres adjacent to the Parc. When the coachman stopped at the hotel’s entrance and Major Wylie jumped down, more cannon fire sounded. His faced creased in worry, but he escorted them into the hotel and easily arranged rooms for them. The hotel had been full, the clerk explained, but many of their guests had left that morning. Several good rooms were available.

  Wylie left them as he was to report to the Place Royale, and Wilson accompanied him, hoping to bring the ladies back some reliable news. Ariana felt too restless to sit and wait for his return.

  ‘Come, Mrs Vernon,’ she said. ‘Let us take a walk, explore the Parc.’

  Mrs Vernon nodded.

  The Parc was even more beautiful than Ariana had expected, so huge the squares of London paled in comparison. Its wide expanse of grass was criss-crossed with gravel walkways and dotted with shade trees, fountains and statues. Magnificent ornate buildings surrounded it like a decorative frame. Few people were strolling there, although Ariana could easily picture how it might have looked filled with soldiers and their ladies, walking and lounging in the warm summer weather.

  As she and Jack might have done.

  ‘They said that the battle would not happen for weeks,’ Mrs Vernon said, more to herself than to Ariana.

  Mrs Vernon had proved to be a sad and silent travelling companion, only speaking to Ariana when absolutely necessary. She could not blame the older woman for not wishing to be companionable. Ariana had caused Mrs Vernon’s sadness, after all.

  ‘Indeed,’ she responded, more to herself than to Jack’s mother.

  A sudden burst of cannon fire startled them, and Mrs Vernon lost her footing. Ariana steadied her.

  She drew away. ‘How clumsy of me.’

  ‘You are fatigued.’ Ariana withdrew her hands. ‘Shall we turn back? See if our rooms are ready? You can rest a little. We can dine and retire early.’

  ‘As you wish,’ the older woman said.

  Ariana gave an inward sigh.

  They retraced their steps, and Ariana distracted herself by trying to see the sight as Jack might have seen it, as he might have painted it.

  It was too painful.

  She attended instead to the style of architecture. ‘Michael would like to see all these buildings, would he not?’ she commented to Mrs Vernon.

  ‘I suppose,’ the woman answered.

  Michael and Nancy had rushed back from Gretna Green when the news of Napoleon’s escape reached them. Husband and wife now, they were presently staying in Mrs Vernon’s rooms on Adam Street.

  ‘It is lovely here.’ Ariana glanced towards Mrs Vernon.

  She had tears in her eyes.

  Ariana touched her hand. ‘Do not be distressed. Jack will come through this.’

  ‘Jack—’ Mrs Vernon’s voice was almost as soft as the breeze. ‘We cannot know what will happen.’

  Ariana put an arm around her. ‘We shall pray for him.’

  The cannons fired again and Ariana whipped her head around as if expecting to see French soldiers charging down the scenic paths.

  Instead Wilson approached.

  They hurried to meet him. ‘What news, Wilson?’ Mrs Vernon asked. ‘What did you discover?’

  ‘There is a battle not too far distant.’ The manservant took a moment to catch his breath. ‘Fifteen or twenty miles from here at a place called Quatre Bras.’

  ‘Is Jack in it?’ Ariana asked.

  Wilson swallowed. ‘We must assume he is. His regiment, the East Essex, is in it.’

  ‘And Lord Tranville?’ Mrs Vernon’s voice rose.

  ‘Lord Tranville!’ Ariana could not believe her ears.

  Wilson looked at Mrs Vernon with great sympathy. ‘He should be in the battle as well. He is assisting General Pack with the 9th Brigade.’

  The older woman turned ashen. ‘I would like to return to the hotel.’ She walked briskly away.

  Ariana turned to Wilson. ‘I cannot believe this.’

  Mrs Vernon had made this journey because of Tranville.

  Wilson looked grim. ‘The East Essex is in the 9th Brigade, miss. They may encounter each other.’

  Adriana nodded.

  An encounter with Tranville could not be good for Jack.

  Early the next morning Ariana discovered the city was in a panic. Belgian soldiers galloping through had proclaimed the French were on their heels, but other reports declared that was not true. Ariana walked toward the Place Royale in search of someone who could give her reliable information. She ran into Major Wylie, who told her that the previous day’s battle had been a draw, at best. The English forces had held their own, but Wellington was readying for another even bigger battle.

  While people continued to flee the city in any sort of vehicle they could find, other wagons rolled in full of wounded men, their eyes fatigued with pain, their uniforms stained with blood. Ariana grieved at the sight of them.

  ‘Are they from yesterday’s battle?’ she asked a man who also watched the grim parade.

  ‘From Quatre Bras,’ he said.

  Wagon after wagon passed, with more and more soldiers. Ariana was riveted to the sight, fearing the next wagon might carry Jack. Finally one of the wagons was full of soldiers whose uniforms looked like Jack’s.

  She ran along side. ‘Are you from the East Essex?’

  ‘We are,’ one man answered wearily.

  ‘Do you kno
w Lieutenant Vernon? Do you know how he fared?’ she asked.

  ‘Last I saw he was in one piece,’ the man told her.

  In one piece. Her heart leapt with joy.

  ‘Do you know about General Lord Tranville?’

  They did not know.

  She asked every wagon after that one if they were from the 9th Brigade, if they knew anything about Tranville.

  She must have asked twelve wagons before a soldier answered. ‘I am Royal Scots. We were with the 9th Brigade.’

  ‘Do you know the fate of General Tranville?’ she asked.

  The man laughed derisively. ‘Oh, he is as he ever was.’

  She did not know what that meant. ‘He is unhurt, then?’

  ‘Unhurt, miss,’ the man said. ‘And a damned shame it is.’

  Ariana hurried back to the hotel to give Mrs Vernon the news. Mrs Vernon, her maid and Wilson were waiting for her in a sitting room.

  She approached Mrs Vernon’s chair and lowered herself to look directly in the lady’s eyes. ‘I’ve learned that Jack and Lord Tranville are unhurt.’

  Mrs Vernon closed her eyes. ‘Thank God.’

  Wilson touched her shoulder. ‘I have secured space for us in a carriage, but we must leave now.’

  ‘You three must go.’ Ariana stood. ‘I am staying.’

  ‘Staying? Why?’ Mrs Vernon leaned forwards in her chair.

  Ariana gave her a resolute look. ‘There is to be another battle. If Jack is hurt in it, he will probably be brought here.’ Her throat tightened with emotion. ‘And I will be here to take care of him.’

  ‘Then I will stay, too.’ Mrs Vernon leaned back.

  Wilson bowed to her. ‘I must remain with you, ma’am.’

  The maid’s eyes darted from one to the other. ‘Well, I am not going off alone.’

  The hotel soon filled with wounded men and they all assisted in their care, waiting for the next battle and what news it would bring.

  That evening it rained as if the heavens had opened up. Tranville glanced around the peasant’s hut and sniffed in disgust. His billet for the night was no more than one room with a straw mattress for a bed and a table and chairs of rustic wood worn smooth by generations of use. He glanced heavenwards. It was dry, at least, and its fireplace was well stocked with wood.

  He had plenty of orders for the officers, most of whom had done well the previous day, he had to admit.

  He fixed the men with a 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.

  Captain Deane merely assumed a bland expression. Tranville detested that. Never could tell what the man was thinking. Captain Landon merely nodded.

  ‘Landon, I want you to find Picton tonight. See if he has any message for me.’

  Landon 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.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Landon was a good sort. Knew his duty. Got messages through posthaste. The result of good breeding, no doubt. Landon came from a good family, not a middle-class upstart like Deane, who’d risen to Captain through the ranks. That was a high enough rank in Tranville’s mind and he’d seen to it that Deane rose no further. Pity Landon chose to befriend Deane.

  It would have been better if Landon had made friends with Edwin. Landon and Edwin deserved their promotions to Captain. Tranville had only wished he could have advanced Edwin even higher in rank, but it had not been all up to him.

  He glanced over at his son, who was sitting on a stool near the door sipping some brandy from a flask he’d packed with him. Yes, indeed, Landon would be a good influence on Edwin.

  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 stood in the doorway, half a head taller than Tranville’s own son.

  ‘Mind your boots, Vernon,’ Tranville said. ‘This dirt floor is bad enough without you tracking in mud.

  Jack kicked the cakes of mud off his boots on the doorjamb.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Tranville ordered. ‘You are letting in the rain.’

  Jack removed his shako and shook off its moisture before he finally stepped through the doorway, his top coat dripping on the floor. Tranville might have rung a peal over Jack’s head for it, but he’d been distracted by Captain Deane, who poked Landon and inclined his head towards Jack. What the devil was that was about?

  Jack exchanged a glance with the two men before turning back to Tranville, but not quite looking him in the face. He stood at attention. ‘A message from Lieutenant Colonel Hamerton, sir.’

  Tranville snatched the message from Jack’s outstretched hand. Favouring Jack with the nastiest glare he could muster, he took his time opening the folded paper and reading it. He folded it back again. ‘You will wait for my reply.’

  If the others wondered why he did not order Jack at ease, let them. Jack well knew why. This was a good opportunity to remind Jack that there was unfinished business between them. The ruin of Jack, his family, and his…actress.

  No one would believe those fool pictures of Jack’s. He’d invented them. Edwin might be a coward, but no Tranville would assault a woman and child, even if they were Spanish papists.

  Besides, Edwin had proved he was not a coward. At Quatres Bras he’d remained just where he was supposed to remain. At his father’s side. It was not quite being in the throes of combat, as Jack had been, but they were inside a square, somewhat exposed to artillery fire and musket balls.

  Tranville stretched his arm and wrote as slowly as he could, making a show of pausing between each word, as if he were considering what to write. When he finished he folded the note and gestured for Jack to come closer. ‘A word with you, Vernon.’

  Jack was forced to lean down to him. Tranville expelled a breath on purpose, directly on his ear. ‘You had better hope some Frenchman runs you through, Jack. Otherwise, when we return to England, you and your family will wish you were dead.’

  Jack straightened, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

  ‘Leave now.’ He pretended to re-read Hamerton’s letter.

  ‘With your permission, I’ll leave now as well,’ Landon said.

  ‘Go.’ He waved him away.

  Jack executed an about-face and walked out of the door, Landon right behind him.

  ‘Do you have further need of me?’ asked Deane.

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Tranville. ‘All of you go.’

  Deane and the others filed out, the last man not quite latching the door. Edwin was forced to get off his stool to close it.

  Tranville pointed a finger at him. ‘You had better do yourself credit in battle tomorrow. Show some gumption for a change.’

  Edwin’s face turned pale and he took a long draught from his flask.

  Once outside of Tranville’s billet, Landon and Deane pulled Jack aside. ‘Do you have time for some tea?’

  Jack nodded gratefully. The rain, still falling in sheets, had soaked him through and left a chill.

  They led him to a small storage building, which was their shelter for the night. At its entrance they’d made a small fire from bits of wood. A kettle rested in its coals. As they stepped inside, Jack saw another officer wrapped in a blanket and snoring in a corner.

  Over tin mugs of tea, Jack told the two men how and why he’d broken his word to them.

  ‘You are safe,’ Jack assured them. ‘I did not show enough to identify you, not even your uniforms.’

  Deane rubbed his face. ‘I hope some Frenchman puts a ball through his head.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, Gabe,’ Landon cautioned.

  Jack rose. ‘I had better deliver my message.’

  He shook their hands and hoped they both mad
e it through the following day.

  Before he walked out he turned to Deane. ‘Did you find safety for the woman and her son?’

  ‘I did,’ Deane answered. ‘In fact, I saw her in Brussels. She lives here.’

  Landon sat up straight. ‘You did not tell me that.’

  Deane shrugged.

  ‘And the boy?’ Jack asked.

  Deane looked from one to the other. ‘In the army.’

  Jack shook his head. The boy could be no more than sixteen, too young for battle. Some of the Belgian forces had cut and run from Quatre Bras. Perhaps the boy had been with them and would be safe from combat tomorrow.

  Would that they all could be safe.

  The next day it was almost noon before the cannonade began again, louder and closer.

  Ariana and Mrs Vernon continued to help to tend the wounded men, bringing water and clean bandages, trying to comfort them as best they could. A few of the soldiers had come from Jack’s regiment and she’d asked each of them if they knew how he fared. Last they’d seen he was still standing.

  All the while, the distant sounds of battle continued. Ariana thought of Jack with each boom of artillery fire. She went out as often as she could, in search of news of the battle.

  More wounded men rolled into the city, some reporting that all was lost, others saying, ‘Boney is licked.’ No one really knew which it was.

  It was late that night when word finally reached them that the French were in retreat. The Allies had won the battle, but at great cost. It was said the battlefield was littered with the dead and dying. Ariana prayed Jack was not among them. Surely she would know if he were wounded. She would feel it in her own heart.

  By morning the wounded were still arriving in droves. Hospitals, homes and hotels were full and the wounded poured out into the street.

  Mrs Vernon insisted upon going to the Place Royale personally to find word of Lord Tranville. Because he was a general, she was convinced someone would know if he was alive, wounded or dead. Ariana only hoped they also would have word of Jack.

  The officials at the Place Royale were too busy to spare them even a word. As they were ushered out, a young officer approached the building.

  Edwin Tranville.