Sweet Bravado

by Alicia Meadowes

  Cecily was further alarmed as Madame Lafitte declared her intention of accompanying Nicole. Crying that she would be left alone and unprotected, Cecily demanded that the women remain with her. Nicole refused to be moved by Cecily’s fears and was about to leave with Madame Lafitte when Danforth arrived escorting Perry who was limping.

  “Perry,” she cried.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you, Nicole, but I took a shot in my leg. Damn Frogs! Sorry to put you to all this trouble.”

  “Hush, dear,” Nicole soothed him placing her hand in his. “You know I could not bear to have you in anyone’s care but my own. You are my family.”

  “You’re a trump, Nicole. Should have known you have the heart of a lion.”

  “Do not overrate my courage, dear Perry,” she claimed smiling with effort. “But enough about me, you are the one requiring attention. Let’s get you upstairs where you can rest.”

  After seeing to Perry’s comfort, Nicole returned to Gordon Danforth. “How did you find him, Gordon?”

  “Perry came to my lodgings this morning. He didn’t want to come here and worry you unnecessarily, but, of course, I knew you would want him here. His wound is not serious, but he will get more attention here.”

  “Thank you, Gordon. You have been such a good friend to all of us.”

  “It has always been that way between the Harcourts and me,” he replied with embarrassment.

  “I only wish I could have helped you and Geneviève more when you needed it.” She touched his hand impulsively.

  “No, Nicole, it was not meant to be for Geneviève and me—just as it was meant for you and Valentin to come together.” There was a significant pause as she accepted his statement. “I must return to headquarters, but I will stop by later.”

  “Gordon,” she still held his hand, “has there been any word of Valentin?”

  “None.” He patted her hand. “At the first word, I will let you know.”

  “Please,” she whispered as he departed.

  Cecily joined Nicole in the drawing room shortly after Danforth left. A worried frown marked her brow as she paced nervously about the room. “Nicole… I… I’m sorry about the other day. John… John is out there somewhere. I did not realize how much that silly man meant to me until I saw Perry. What if I should lose him?”

  “I understand, Cecily, but you must not think like that,” Nicole replied calmly enough, but her own fears made it impossible to console Cecily further. How much longer before she would know Valentin’s fate?

  When the news of Napoleon’s defeat spread through Brussels, by the nightfall of June 18, 1815, forty thousand men lay wounded or dying in the Belgian fields surrounding Waterloo. On the very next morning an overwhelming effort to rescue the wounded was launched. Once the Belgians no longer feared backing the wrong side, the houses of the rich were thrown open to the victims of that terrible battle, and little distinction was made whether a soldier had been enemy or ally.

  Nicole still had no word of Valentin and her alarm grew uncontrollable. For days she had been harboring a secret plan, and it took only the news of Napoleon’s defeat to precipitate her into action. She would go find Valentin herself, and there was no stopping her.

  “But chérie, this is madness!” protested Madame La-fitte. “Where shall you begin to look for the Viscount in the swarming confusion in the streets. You will not reach the city gates.”

  “You cannot stop me, Fifi. So cease your prattle. I am determined.”

  “My dear Nicole, how can you hope to endure the rigors such a search must entail?” This was from John Tilford who had arrived minutes ago in the wake of Gordon Danforth, both bearing the news of Bonaparte’s rout to the household. They were gathered in Perry’s bedroom. Cecily clung happily to her husband’s arm.

  “You talk to me of rigors when I do not know if my husband is alive or dead!” she choked. “He may be wounded! Suffering! Oh, do not stare so, but help me instead, please.”

  There was a pause. Then Perry quietly injected, “She is right.”

  Madame Lafitte and Danforth looked at each other, and realizing the futility of remonstrating further, looked back to Nicole.

  “Very well, my dear,” Gordon agreed. “I shall prepare a carriage and see you through this hazard and supply whatever assistance I may.”

  “Thank you once again, my dear, good friend.”

  It was at the Namur gate, amidst the throngs of returning wounded that Nicole spied Valentin. She was anxiously hailed by Harry Bramwell who was directing a path for the stretcher bearers through the crowd. Danforth held Nicole back when she attempted to climb from the wagon. Bramwell approached them as they alighted. Grasping Nicole’s hand, he urged her, “Prepare yourself, Lady Ardsmore. He looks… bad.”

  “Oh, Valentin, no!” she cried faintly.

  “But his chances for recovery are good. The surgeon removed the ball from his chest and bound it. I was told that the Colonel’s constitution is strong…”

  “I must go to him,” she interrupted Bramwell.

  “Nicole,” Danforth cautioned. “For his sake you must not give way. You must be strong.”

  She nodded, bracing herself, but her heart was beating wildly with fear as she approached her husband and knelt beside him. At the sight of Valentin her resolve weakened. The gray pallor of his skin, the matted golden hair and the dirt-streaked face caused her- to tremble violently. But pressing a shaking hand against her mouth, she held back the anguished cry which sprang to her lips. Valentin groaned and opened lackluster eyes.

  Nicole placed her hand on his brow as he continued to mutter incoherently. “Valentin,” she barely whispered his name, but his head jerked in her direction, and his lips soundlessly formed her name, wrenching her heart. “Oh my darling.” She took his hot hand in hers and felt the fingers move feebly.

  “He has been given some laudanum to help him rest and ease the pain.” Bramwell spoke behind her. “Get the Colonel into the wagon,” he ordered the stretcher bearers who moved as quickly as possible with their burden to the conveyance and lifted him in. “He is to be kept cool and quiet, and a new poultice is to be applied every few hours. The surgeon is worried mostly about his fever.”

  “We’ll never be able to thank you enough, Harry,” Nicole murmured fervently, clasping his hand before Danforth assisted her into the wagon beside her husband.

  “I’m glad I could help. I pray to God he recovers. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be getting back. There are many others who need our aid.”

  Nicole heard no more of the discussion between the two men as she bent over her husband, wiping the dirt and grime from his face.

  The jostling wagon moved slowly through the masses toward the house on the Rue d’Anglais, all the while Danforth fearing the damage the ride was doing the injured man. His moaning had increased, and Danforth threw an anxious look over his shoulder at his friend. Nicole lifted her tear-stained face to him.

  “Not much farther, my dear,” he assured her.

  She placed a cool cloth on Valentin’s forehead and whispered lovingly to him. “Oh, my dear. My dearest love.” Her words floated through the miasma of his pain and suffering, for he needed nothing so much as the comfort of his upon wife after his passage through the hell of battle, and hearing her voice, his agitation lessened.

  The entire household watched as Danforth and Tilford carried Valentin to his room. Cecily wept while Perry cursed, but it was Madame Lafitte who took charge of the near chaotic situation. Shouting orders, giving instructions and supervising the entire matter, she soon had the Viscount settled. Then Nicole, along with Danforth at her side, began her vigil beside Valentin’s fever-racked body.

  Later, when she removed the bandages so that a new compress could be applied, she gasped at the sight of the torn and inflamed flesh. But forcing down her weakness, she worked quickly binding the injured area of his chest. Suddenly Valentin cried out wrenching free of her. As he struggled to sit up, Danforth clasped his arms
about his, subduing him while Nicole completed her ministrations. Straightening from her position, Nicole found her legs too weak to support her. Sinking to her knees and burying her face in her husband’s hand, she began to weep.

  “My God, Nicole, you must rest, or you will be no good to him later on when he is fully awake and in pain. Let me call Madame Lafitte.”

  Realizing the truth of his words, Nicole allowed herself to be put to bed where she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Several hours later she returned and remained with Valentin through the nightmare hours of his agony. When the doctor arrived, Valentin was in a state of semiconsciousness, but the doctor’s words were encouraging. The fever had dropped, and if Colonel Harcourt continued to improve for the next twenty-four hours, he saw no reason why the patient should not recover completely. Nicole breathed a sigh of relief but never relaxed her care of Valentin during that crucial time.

  The sun was rising on a new day, and Nicole was adjusting Valentin’s blankets when his eyes opened and focused on her.

  “Nicole?” he whispered weakly.

  “Valentin?” She felt his forehead and discovered that the fever was gone completely, and his eyes were no longer clouded. “How do you feel?”

  He grimaced, furrowing his brow, but replied steadily, “Much better.”

  Taking the wan face between her hands and gently kissing his lips, she said, “Liar.” Then slipping her arm under his shoulders, she lifted him so he might drink to moisten his parched lips.

  “Did I dream it, or did you tell me earlier… that the Allies had routed Napoleon?” He frowned.

  “It is true. Tilford and your brother, Perry, have already rejoined their regiments in pursuit of the fleeing army.”

  “Damn!… I shall miss it.”

  “According to Gordon…”

  “Gordon?”

  “Why yes, he has been in constant attendance since we found you, but you were not clear-headed at the time.” She smiled at his confusion. Valentin sought her hand, and she grasped his, holding it to her breast. Swallowing tears of joy and relief she said, “They informed me that this would be a clean-up operation, and no doubt by the time you are well, the Allies will be in Paris. Does that relieve your mind, my love?”

  “Immensely, but I still wish I could be with the Duke when…”

  “Hush! You have done your duty. You must get back your strength, and that will only come with peace and quiet. You must rest.”

  “I am tired,” he agreed as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, images of a violet-eyed girl dancing seductively before him in his dreams.

  From that moment his progress was rapid, and the doctor, when he visited a few days later, assured the Viscount it would not be long before he was up and around.

  One afternoon sometime later as Nicole was rebandaging Valentin’s wound, she felt a tug on one of her curls. She looked up and frowned at him, then proceeded with what she was doing. Once again he pulled at the loosened curl.

  “Valentin, don’t,” she insisted shaking her head free of his fingers as the curl came tumbling down. “Now see what you have done,” she scolded as several more tresses fell about her shoulders and breast.

  He only laughed.

  “Oh, I can see you are going to be a naughty patient.” She smiled indulgently and straightened away from him. “Now I will have to leave you and go repair the damage you have wrought.”

  “Nicole, don’t leave me,” he pleaded sweetly, sitting up among the pillows.

  “But I must. It is your own fault you know,” she chided and turned her back to him.

  Valentin moaned loudly and flopped back among the pillows, thrashing about in pain.

  Immediately she was at his side. “Valentin! What is it, my love?”

  He reached up with his good arm and pulled her down alongside him on the bed.

  “You wretch! You scared me. I thought you were in pain!”

  “I am, Nicole. In more ways than one.”

  She caught his meaning but ignored it saying, “Shall I bathe your brow?”

  “No, my love, just promise to stay with me.” He snatched a quick kiss.

  “I… I would willingly if you promised not to exert yourself,” she temporized, eyes flashing with mischief.

  “Since I am too weak to do no more at present than hold you and kiss you,” which he proceeded to do arousing her own longing for him, “you have my promise to behave.”

  “Very well.” Nicole smiled helplessly, returning his kiss.

  “You see, my love,” he said triumphantly. “The Harcourt luck has finally had its way.” He settled her more firmly within the circle of his arm.

  Nicole sighed contentedly, snuggling closer to the man she had loved since her childhood. She knew that she and Valentin would never be separated again. Not by anything. Ever.

  It was not A MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN!

  It was a union decreed in her will by Aunt Sophie. She planned to end the feud between two branches of her family by naming joint heirs. Valentin, Viscount Ardsmore, and Nicole Harcourt, daughter of his disgraced uncle and a French ballet dancer, would inherit Aunt Sophie’s fortune only if they married each other.

  And wed, they did. But Aunt Sophie’s plan for peace had stirred up a new battle between the fiery, little French girl, who wanted love—and fidelity—from her new husband, and the virile viscount, who expected his wife to want only what he wanted to give…