It Started at Waterloo

by Lynne Connolly

  She brightened. “Is that all? So why did you wait so long?”

  “I didn’t want to come to you when you were doubting me. Or when there was trouble between us.” He lifted his hand to cup her face, keeping her attention on his face. “What was it, sweetheart? I tried to give you everything you needed.”

  “Except you.” Her lip trembled, and he kissed her to stop the telltale signal of oncoming tears. Those two words set his senses spinning. “I was lost,” she said. “I had no idea what I was supposed to do.”

  “Merely enjoy yourself,” he said.

  “But I wanted to go with you. Not have all the proprietors in London treat me like a tyro. Which I am. I couldn’t ask my mother to accompany me, could I?”

  He laughed, but stopped when he saw how serious she was. “I thought you the bravest person I had ever met.” A vision of her behavior with the rough soldiers who came into the field hospital flashed through his mind. “I saw you order men about as if you were an officer.”

  “That was different.” She bit her lip, frowning. “It was not about me.”

  The answer came to him immediately. She had spent her life being denigrated and downtrodden by her mother, ignored by her sisters. He could kick himself. He had thought her engrossed with her new life, becoming a fashionable lady, but he should have known better.

  He kissed her again. “This is about you too. I want you to be whoever you want to be. You don’t have to do anything.”

  “What about the public meetings? I’ve received invitations to speak.”

  “I’m proud of you. What are you talking about?”

  She swallowed. “My experiences with the army. It’s mainly groups of ladies. I did not know what to say or to reveal about what I did. My mother constantly told me I was not behaving like a lady. I thought—I thought they might want to point at me, as a bad example.”

  “Who asked you?”

  The names she gave him made him whistle between his teeth. “No, those ladies do not want to make a bad example of you. You could be starting a movement, sweetheart. Those ladies are reformers. They do not play games. They want you to tell them what you saw and what needs to be done. Many movements began in fashionable salons.” He kissed her nose, her astonishment adorable. She had no idea what strengths she held inside her.

  But he was all too aware of how he’d nearly destroyed her confidence in him. At the thought of how close he had come to losing her, his blood ran cold. At some points in a person’s life, they had choices that would affect the rest of their existence. He could have undermined her confidence instead of supporting her as he should.

  “I’m sorry. I should have taken you with me. I thought you interested in other things. Would you like to accompany me to the hospitals?”

  “Why do you need to ask?” Her voice echoed with disbelief. “I have more clothes and jewels than I can ever wear. I would give them all up to be useful once more.”

  “You can have both,” he promised. “But the social round?”

  “Can we not do that together?” She sounded so eager, he wanted to laugh. He could see this woman outstripping him in her achievements, if he was not careful. It would take him a lifetime to understand her. That sounded good. A lifetime with her by his side could prove fruitful in more ways than one.

  “Of course we can. We may scandalize people in some quarters, though.” He had to warn her of that.

  “I don’t care. That is, if it doesn’t affect our children.”

  At her rosy blush he laughed and kissed her, but then an idea struck him. “Have you omitted to tell me something?”

  She shook her head, her color receding. “No. I had my courses a week ago.”

  That didn’t deter him in the least. Rolling her under him, he said, “Then we must keep trying, must we not?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Viewing St. Bartholomew’s hospital with his wife at his side proved a much better way for Will to elicit information. Her femininity and her feigned air of innocence drew answers that surprised and shocked them both. The man who showed them around appeared much keener to gain their patronage and their money rather than their active participation.

  Will didn’t want that. He’d learned a skill he was proud of, even if it was becoming obvious that he could not resume his previous occupation. But he could teach, and influence, and even petition and speak in Parliament.

  “We are at the beginning of a new world in medicine and surgery,” he said. “I want to have some say in where it goes.”

  The man ushering them into a ward he warned might hold sights that might overbear the lady’s sensibilities stopped in his protestations. “Indeed, my lord, we all hope that. I would point out the way we—”

  Releasing his arm, Amelia walked forward, her stride sure. She was in a place she knew well. “Do you rank the men?”

  “According to their social status?” Mr. Hollis sounded indulgent.

  “No, of course not!” She waved her arm impatiently. “In order of severity of injury. The men with the more serious injuries need more attention, and the ones who are recovering are in need of rest. So it makes sense to rank them—group them thusly.”

  Mr. Hollis blinked. “You had this idea, my lord?” he asked.

  Will gritted his teeth. “No, it was my wife’s concern. She has a genius for organization. She helped to reduce mortality rates considerably.

  A stir at the end of the ward had them drawing back. A man hurried along the path between the serried rows of beds. “There is an emergency, sir. A man was mowed down not a hundred yards from our door. He needs help quickly!”

  Glancing at Amelia, Will grasped her hand as he passed, and together they hurried in the wake of the newcomer. His clothes were covered with blood. They needed to act quickly.

  “Where is the surgeon?” Will rapped out.

  “He is not on the premises,” Mr. Hollis said. “We will have to send for him.”

  A man lay on a pallet in the hall, crying with pain. Whatever had run over him had caught his leg. It was completely crushed. Beyond repair. Even before they got his wound exposed Will saw that. Oh, for his trusty case of equipment! If someone didn’t attend to this man quickly, he would die.

  Amelia dropped to the floor, ignoring Mr. Hollis’s protests, and unfastened the poor unfortunate’s breeches.

  “We need knives and a saw,” Will commanded. He knelt down on the other side. “And a table, or a low stool.”

  Amelia touched the man’s forehead, compelling him to look at her. Tears were pouring down his face, but she managed to snag his attention. “My husband is the best surgeon I know,” she said. “He will save you.”

  Perhaps. But Will didn’t say that aloud. Hollis raced back with a familiar-looking case. Although it was not his own, when he threw back the lid Will found what he needed. He picked out a saw and a knife. Amelia plucked a smaller knife from its housing and set about cutting off the man’s clothes, exposing the flesh above the wound.

  Will stripped off his fashionable, confining coat. He needed free movement for this.

  At least Hollis proved a good assistant when crisis struck. He found the low stool Will wanted, and without being bidden, propped it under what was left of the man’s knee. Blood still poured out of the wound.

  Swiftly, Will located the major blood vessels and tied them off. Amelia pulled a length of leather from the case and fashioned a tourniquet, wrapping it around the leg.

  Tersely, he commanded, “Time me,” and then picked up the knife. Amelia pulled out her watch and started counting off the seconds as she helped him expose the bone.

  He had the limb off in under thirty seconds. Truthfully, the wheel of the vehicle had begun the process. But as the useless appendage fell away and Amelia tightened the tourniquet, the blood flow began to lessen. They had been successful. The man had a chance of life.

  “He was fortunate to fall before the hospital,” Hollis said. Will wouldn’t have put it that way.

  He
stood, stretching his limbs, unused to operating on the floor. In the army, he’d had men to lift the next patient on to the table so he could work faster and more efficiently.

  Reaching down a hand, he hauled Amelia to her feet. Her bonnet was tilted back on her head, her skirts spattered with blood, but her face was flushed with happiness. Not at the fate of the poor man, but because they had worked together and completed the job.

  This was how it should be. They could achieve so much more together than they could apart. He would support her every inch of the way, knowing she would do the same for him.

  As assistants came forward to lift the pallet and carry the man into a ward, Amelia looked down at herself ruefully. “I didn’t like this gown anyway. Too frilly.”

  “So it is,” he said, eyeing the triple row of ruffles at the bottom of the skirt. “It was sacrificed in a good cause.”

  Meeting his gaze, she said, “The best.”

  As they walked through the front door to the appalled gaze of their butler, Will was saying to her, “We must ensure the man is kept clean. I am his surgeon, and I will follow the case.”

  “I would like to make notes,” she said, happier than she had been for weeks. Although ashamed her pleasure came from another’s suffering, he had made one thing clear—she knew where she belonged, and what she wanted to do with her life. If she could not work as a surgeon’s assistant, she would fight to improve conditions; help the mortality rates they had sustained in the army follow through in civilian life.

  And Will wanted her there.

  If he had not told her he loved her, he esteemed her, and that would be enough, she told herself stoutly. The fact that she adored him, would do anything for him, was her burden, which, at the moment, she was carrying lightly.

  The butler cleared his throat noisily. “My lord, you have a visitor.”

  Only then did she notice the traveling-trunk resting in the hall. Her mother would not dare to land herself on them, surely? Hadn’t Will made their position clear?

  Will raised a brow but before he could ask Vernon who had called on them, a man came out of the bookroom, dusting his hands together.

  He was as fair as Will was dark, but possessed of the same shade of bright blue eyes. He was also shorter than Will, by two or three inches. “So it is you!” he exclaimed, and came forward, but stopped abruptly when he saw their condition. “What has happened?” he said, but horror was not as evident as curiosity, which Amelia thought passing strange. If they were hurt, surely whoever this was should show more concern?”

  “Nothing,” Will said shortly. “My dear, may I introduce my brother, Mr. Simon Kennaway?”

  As they made their bows, Mr. Kennaway’s gaze slid over her. She shivered, hating the way he assessed her. But this was Will’s brother, so she curtseyed and smiled. “If you will excuse me, I’ll change and join you in the drawing-room.” She glanced at Vernon. “Tea, as soon as possible?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Vernon’s bow seemed rather low, but she didn’t waste time wondering as she hurried upstairs to her room.

  Fifteen minutes later, she’d washed and changed into a primrose-yellow day gown, reflecting the bright sunlight outside. At least summer had arrived. Or perhaps it was merely a day of two of sunshine before the relentless rain continued. Fluffing her hair after running her comb through it, she reflected how much easier she found it to manage. She should have had it cut years ago.

  After a quick glance in the mirror, she left her maid tutting over the ruined gown and ran downstairs to join her husband and his brother.

  Simon Kennaway had a handsome austerity that did not invite friendliness, but she determined to show him a smiling face. After pouring tea, a task that proved much easier when her mother was not watching her, she took a seat next to Will, on the very sofa her mother had occupied.

  “I confess I thought my brother an impostor,” Mr. Kennaway said after his first sip. “I had considered him fixed abroad.”

  “I have come home,” Will said. “With a wife. We’ll come to the country as soon as we may.”

  She heard the news with a sinking heart. What would she do there?

  However, disregarding convention, Will took her hand and squeezed it warmly. “We will probably fix our residence in London for the foreseeable future. We have a cause we wish to pursue.”

  His brother coughed behind his hand. “You were not thinking of continuing as a surgeon, I trust?”

  “No, but we do wish to continue studying and supporting our aims.”

  “I cannot think that wise.” If Simon was the younger brother, why did he appear the stuffiest of the two? But his expression of appalled horror as he looked from Will to Amelia was not one she liked.

  “Then it is as well Amelia is not your wife,” Will said calmly. “How is the lovely Margaret?”

  “Well enough,” Simon said grudgingly. “Expecting again.”

  “How many is that? Six?”

  “Five.”

  “You see, my dear, we do not want for heirs,” Will said.

  Why was he speaking in such a hard voice? What was wrong? Tension thrummed between the two men, as palpable as if she could touch it.

  Simon leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. He was dressed in the height of fashion, his coat fitting him like a second skin. His hair was brushed into a Brutus style, his neckcloth wrapped and knotted in a fashion she did not recognize, but with precise and carefully creased folds. He sat at ease in this room. He must have done so many times before while Will was abroad.

  It didn’t help that the brothers didn’t resemble each other in the least. Will was tall, dark and rangy, while his brother was more compact, slightly shorter, leaner, with guinea-gold curls. Simon’s air of pride contrasted strongly with Will’s consideration and respect for everyone he came across.

  “You do not plan to start a family of your own, then?” Simon’s casual voice didn’t fool Amelia into thinking he cared little for the answer.

  “What will happen, happens,” Will said. Amelia squeezed his hand this time. She wanted his children, so much, but she read his caution as a dislike to put her under pressure.

  “I see.” Simon’s voice hardened.

  Amelia poured more tea.

  Simon pressed his lips together. “I had not thought to see you married, much less with a family of your own.”

  “Why not?”

  Simon got to his feet in a jerky gesture that appeared unnatural to him and paced to the window, staring out at the street below. The sound of carriages and shouts from street vendors, the normal London chorus, filtered up to them in the silence.

  Nobody broke it until Simon said, “I thought to end this in a generation. Instead, it will continue indefinitely. Will it not?”

  “Yes,” Will said. He glanced over his shoulder at his brother. “I didn’t think to marry either, but I found someone. Nothing else will do, Simon. Please welcome my wife into the family.”

  “How can I?” Simon returned to his chair, but stood behind it instead of sitting. “Does she know?”

  Will exploded. “You will show my wife respect!”

  Simon’s lip curled in a sneer. “When she has upset all our well-laid plans? Oh, devil take it, if Harry had lived…!” He spun away, his coat tails flying.

  “But he did not,” Will said. “I can’t tell you how much I regret that.”

  “Or that our father—” Simon laughed harshly. “Our father! Tell her, Will. Tell her what she’s done!”

  “I did nothing,” Amelia said, speaking for the first time. She would not see Will so traduced. His brother was nothing short of a bully.

  Will’s mouth flattened in a harsh line, and his face paled. “Yes,” he said. “Very well. But not here.” Getting to his feet, he offered her his hands. “Will you come with me, sweetheart?”

  His use of the endearment in the presence of someone else rattled her, as the previous exchange had not. She took his hands and let him draw her to he
r feet. His eyes were sad, haunted, but he kept silent as he led her out of the room.

  He said nothing until they were in her bedroom. Her maid was off somewhere, so they had the room to themselves. He sat her on the daybed at the foot of the bed and held her hands in his, pressing them together. “I hoped to spare you this. I thought Simon must have recovered from his odd fantasies by now, but he has not. He must have considered my continued absence tacit permission.”

  “I don’t understand.” She wet her lips.

  He watched, a spark flickering in the depths of his eyes, soon gone. “Did you not think it odd that I walked out of my home and family when I was eighteen?”

  She shook her head. “I thought you followed your dream. Your brother was alive—”

  “Actually, I left just after his death,” he said. “When my situation became untenable.”

  “What did they do?”

  He gazed at her, and then took a deep breath. “Very well. There is no easy way to say this. Simon and I do not share the same father.”

  Amelia gasped. “He isn’t your full brother?”

  “No. Unfortunately, his father was the Earl of Rothwell. Mine was not.”

  She took in the information slowly, her mind working maddeningly slowly. “So you are—what, illegitimate? You can’t be, you’re the earl! Or are you?”

  “I am. The earl and his wife, my mother, disliked each other. That is putting it mildly. By the time I was born, they were living in different parts of the house. The earl demanded penance. Another son. He said he would accept me if she did that. So she did, and Simon was the result. Harry and Simon are the only sons of the fourth Earl of Rothwell and his wife, and then they had my sister, conceived during another attempt at reconciliation. My brother Harry was the fifth earl. Unfortunately, I grew to resemble my true father very closely. If you saw him, you would know who he was.”

  Worse and worse.

  She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “Will Simon challenge you?”