The Lost Love of a Soldier

by Jane Lark

  Then she signed the page, Eleanor, not that she used her full name at all anymore. She had gradually, without even realising it, slipped into anonymity. Now, after what had happened over recent months, she did not like to make it known to anyone who she was, that she was a duke’s daughter. Although she thought Lieutenant Colonel Hillier knew because he’d posted the letters previously to her father and Paul’s.

  She wrote a letter to Paul’s father now too, telling him she’d given birth to Paul’s son. His grandson. Then she sealed both letters and addressed them as she’d done before. But her father’s she held to her breast for a moment, willing him to come, before leaving the room and walking downstairs to put the letters for posting in the hall.

  None of the footmen were there, and there were four in the house.

  It was just past midday, a time when the house was always silent as Lieutenant Colonel Hillier was out undertaking military activity of some sort. It was the first time she’d come downstairs since John had been born, a month ago, and it felt strange to find the place empty. Megan had gone. She’d been dismissed within days of the first time the Lieutenant Colonel had assaulted Ellen. It was another expression of his embarrassment. He did not want a proper ladies’ maid to know the truth.

  Now one of the general maids had been assigned to help Ellen dress and such.

  Ellen returned to the security of her rooms and her son. Once she was there, she pulled up a chair beside his crib and sat, then watched him sleep, love overflowing inside her. It was so wonderful to feel love again.

  At about five in the evening, the door to her sitting room suddenly opened without a knock. She rose and turned. John had been asleep for hours and she expected him to wake for a feed at any moment. It was the Lieutenant Colonel. She did not wish his intrusion. But this was his house; what could she say?

  “You’ve spent enough time recovering from childbirth, and enough time in blacks. I expect you to dine with me again tonight, and I expect you to wear a pretty dress and not cover your beauty behind those dull rags.” His gaze held hers for a moment, his hand still on the door handle and his foot only one step within the room, but then he pulled back, stepping out and closed the door – as though he’d never been there.

  Her heart plummeted.

  At the sound of the door closing, John made a little whimpering noise in his cradle.

  Ellen turned, bent, and lifted him to her chest; holding him secure as love swelled and rocked inside her, like the surge of the sea when they’d sailed to Ostend.

  She pressed a gentle kiss on his temple then whispered over his skin as she cradled him in one arm and began releasing the buttons of her bodice. “I love you…”

  She almost expected the tiny living soul in her arms to say it back.

  She moved the baby to her breast and felt him clasp and suck as she sat again.

  Once John was fed and sleeping once more, having sung to him for a little while, rocking him gently, Ellen called the maid to help her dress. She wore a pale pink dress, made of very fine muslin. She did not mind giving up her blacks. Now she had John, it was time to leave her mourning for Paul behind.

  Her fingers shook as she went downstairs. She did not wish to speak with Lieutenant Colonel Hillier.

  As she entered the dining room, she saw a box on the table.

  It rested in the middle of her place setting.

  Terror cut through her.

  “I bought a new gift for you.” the Lieutenant Colonel said as she sat, and a footman pushed her chair under.

  It sat in a box before her, a silent threat.

  “Open it.”

  She did not wish to; she knew it meant he wanted a gift in return.

  “Go ahead, Ellen.” His words became snappy, and his tone the one he’d use on a parade ground.

  He was in a beseeching mood – a dangerous mood.

  She opened it, because there was nothing else to do.

  Inside the box rested a string of pearls.

  He stood.

  She did not.

  She remained seated, facing the table; her legs would not have held her up. Her hands shook. She slipped them beneath the table.

  As he leaned across her, his breath touched her neck, making the small hairs on her skin rise as they had done even the first time Paul had introduced her to the Lieutenant Colonel. She wished she could run. But to where, and what about John? How would they survive without Lieutenant Colonel Hillier’s shelter and his food?

  He slipped the pearls about her neck, his fingers brushing her skin as he secured it.

  She shivered.

  It felt as if he had secured a collar about her neck, a collar with a chain upon it.

  “There, they look perfect against you skin, and your hair, Ellen.” He sat.

  Ellen said nothing, unable to look at him.

  “Are you not going to thank me?” His pitch had changed from the tone he used when he believed himself to be expressing love, to the one that forced.

  Ellen looked at him, her eyes accusing. I hate you.

  He held her gaze, his look becoming harder. “I said, say thank you.”

  “I do not need them or want them,” Ellen answered quietly, hoping the footmen would not hear.

  “You will be grateful for them.” His pitch lifted in defiance.

  Damn. Damn… The coarse words she’d learned among Paul’s men spun through her head. She wished to throw them all at Lieutenant Colonel Hillier… “Thank you,” her answer was whispered, while the words in her head were shouted. I hate you.

  He looked away and bid the butler, “Serve the meal.”

  No matter her fear, when dinner was served, her stomach growled at the prospect of a proper meal; she’d been eating only leftovers, cold meat and cheeses in her room.

  Her plate was filled by a footman, as another poured her wine, and then she ate, listening to the Lieutenant Colonel speak without replying in anything more than words of a single syllable, “yes,” “so,” desperate to finish the meal and leave.

  He drank constantly, taking a gulp of his wine between nearly every sentence. By the point her glass was empty his had been replenished thrice.

  Ellen held her hand up, covering her glass when a footman sought to refill it.

  “Let the man pour.” Lieutenant Colonel Hillier barked.

  Ellen looked at him, discomfort unravelling in her nerves. “I do not wish for more wine, thank you.”

  “You are living in my home, if I say have more wine, you will have more wine.”

  Embarrassment and anger prickled up Ellen’s spine, and she moved her hand, she could not bear the servants hearing his rudeness.

  Looking down at the remains of her dinner, she was no longer hungry. She moved her knife and fork together and left them on the plate. Her hands fell into her lap, as her gaze rested on her full untouched glass of wine.

  “Well, drink it as it has been poured for you.”

  The man was obnoxious. She looked up and saw that he’d drained another glass and held it up to be refilled. Her stomach tumbled over, unease closing in on her as if the walls of the room were moving forwards.

  “Drink,” he ordered. With the servants in the room to watch, she did, uncomfortable to even live within her skin. She wished to get out of this house.

  Sipping only a tiny little taste of wine she watched him smile, as if pleased. He talked again, between mouthfuls, as Ellen continued sipping her wine and watched him, saying nothing now.

  The plates were taken away and dessert presented – a grand statement of meringue and orange jelly. The sweetness was oddly bitter in Ellen’s mouth, as across the table she saw Lieutenant Colonel Hillier’s glass refreshed again. He was edgy, and irritable, and she was afraid of doing or saying something which would… No, she could not think of that nor endure it, not now John was upstairs sleeping in his crib.

  But he had bought her a gift and she knew what that meant.

  The pearls lay heavily about her neck.


  They ate the last course in silence, as the footmen stood back and watched, and while Ellen occasionally took tiny sips of her wine to prevent the Lieutenant Colonel’s anger, he took great gulps and then waved a man forward to refill his glass.

  Ellen longed for home, and yet what was home? Somewhere she felt safe. It had been her father’s house for most of her life, and then it had been with Paul. And now? Now there was nowhere.

  When she set her spoon and fork down on the plate, he took another large swig of wine.

  He was fortifying himself – building up courage.

  Either that or he simply wished to be in his cups within the hour.

  Ellen shut her eyes, searching for ideas – how to escape…

  Once he had finished his dessert he let his cutlery drop sharply on the plate with a metallic clink against the porcelain, then looked at the butler. “Clear this.”

  Immediately, the footman moved, taking away their empty plates, and the remnants of the meal. Ellen leaned back counting down minutes in her head to the moment it may not seem too early to rise and leave the man to his port, and when she went up to her rooms she would lock the door.

  The footmen moved about her, and then finally walked from the room in a line. Ellen swallowed and stood. “I shall leave you?”

  “No.” The answer was sharp. Looking from her to the butler, Lieutenant Colonel Hillier said, “Leave and shut the door.”

  Ellen froze as her heart kicked into a rhythm of panic.

  “Sit.” It was an order.

  She did so as the door shut, too afraid to react before the butler, while internally she longed to run.

  Too much of her life had been spent learning to show nothing of her emotions amidst servants and strangers. She had received constant warnings from her father to always appear serene. She did not feel serene – terror ripped through her middle.

  Lieutenant Colonel Hillier stood and crossed the room to his decanters, then poured his own port.

  Ellen’s heart thumped, the sound pounding in her ears as well as pulsing through her blood.

  She looked at the door, longing to run.

  But to where?

  He did not speak.

  What am I to do?

  He turned and looked at her.

  Fear chilled the blood in Ellen’s veins. It was a look of avarice – want.

  “You know I love you, Ellen. I always have, and I have tried to make you love me, but I believe you will never let the ghost of Captain Harding rest. He seems to hover over us. Well I am bored with it. My patience has run dry. I have given you much, and you have given me very little in return.”

  Her stomach tumbled over, bile rising in her throat.

  He came towards her and stood over her, his fingers pressing on her shoulder to keep her seated when she would have stood. She looked up at him, only because there was nowhere else to look. His fingers swept a lock of her hair back behind her ear, then moved beneath her chin and embraced it. “Such a pretty face. Do you even realise how beautiful you are. I was envious of Captain Harding on the first day he introduced you. You are the grand prize, Ellen…”

  She was just a woman, like any other.

  Or perhaps not like any other – after the things he’d done to her.

  “Do you not think you owe me more?” He said the words in a very low, quiet, voice, as if he was afraid of saying them.

  More what?

  He set his glass down on the pristine, starched white tablecloth beside her, then he bent.

  As she realised he intended kissing her, she turned her head away.

  His lips brushed her cheek.

  “Not good enough, Ellen.” His hands braced her face, holding her head so she could not turn, as he had done before when he did that unspeakable thing. “I have waited while you mourned, but you have had long enough. Now I want to be kissed.” His lips pressed against hers, hard and firm.

  It was not with love… It was not love… It was nothing like Paul’s kiss.

  When he would have pushed his tongue into her mouth, she bit her lips and pulled back against his grip.

  He freed her and straightened, staring down at her. For a moment he just stared.

  She remembered all those times he’d watched her when Paul had been alive. Had he been thinking of this then? Had he been planning this from the moment Paul had died when he’d arrived to collect her, smelling freshly bathed? He’d paraded her through the streets on his horse.

  “You know, Ellen, you have a choice. You can be my mistress and I shall continue to keep you. Or you may take your son and go and walk the streets, and perhaps become the mistress of a hundred different men to earn enough to feed and keep your son…”

  She looked to the ceiling and prayed for help.

  What can I do?

  “Well?”

  She did not speak. What was there to say? He could not really expect her to choose to be his mistress…

  “It is your choice whether or not you stay. But if you stay with me now, Ellen. I expect you to be compliant. Do you understand?”

  No, she did not.

  “You must do all that I wish…”

  A stone dropped from her stomach to the soles of her feet as she sat and stared at him again. She had a child who was only six weeks old upstairs. A child who needed a roof and a cot. She needed food to be able to feed him, and it was still winter; it was icily cold beyond the door.

  Her heart beat harder. What was she to do - get up and walk away? Walk where?

  “Shall we try this again, Ellen?” He did not even wait for her answer. He knew her answer could only be acceptance. What other choice did she have? His fingers gripped either side of her face, and tilted it upwards as he bent again. “Open your mouth.” His words were spoken over her lips, hot and scented of wine. She did, and his tongue slid into her mouth, making her feel sick with hatred and dread. Her body shivered with disgust.

  He broke the kiss and rose. “I said you must be compliant, Ellen. I also meant you must participate.”

  No.

  Tears burned in her eyes as he bent again and her arms hung limp, as his tongue pressed into her mouth. She moved her own tongue, not in a caress, she felt too sick, but just in answer… Oh God.

  How has my life come to this?

  His hand slid and touched her breast, then ran lower.

  ~

  Ellen lay curled in a ball on the sofa in the downstairs drawing room, in the dark. She had not found the strength to rise. She had no courage.

  She was an adulteress now, too. He had a wife in England. The Commandments she had been forced to read more than a thousand times the day she’d eloped with Paul, ran through her head. Thou shalt not commit adultery…

  But it had not been her choice.

  Yet her first sin had been her choice.

  Was this payment for that? Honour thy father and mother.

  What could she do?

  How could she have let it happen and done nothing?

  How could she leave without money or possessions?

  What am I to do?

  Tears had run down her cheeks the whole time Lieutenant Colonel Hillier had touched her, and when he’d done what Paul had done, she’d sobbed aloud until he told her to be quiet. Then she’d bitten her lip and wept silently again. She was unclean now. Filthy. She itched inside and she wished to scrub within her body.

  “Ma’am… Forgive me, ma’am.” Ellen sat up instantly and looked towards the door, which had been left ajar but now stood open. The housemaid who’d become her own maid stood there. “The little boy is crying for you…”

  Ellen stood and wiped away her tears, looking down, hiding the marks on her face as she swallowed. “I am coming…” She hoped the maid would go but she did not. Instead she came further into the room.

  “Ma’am, if you do not wish for another child. I can show you things you may do to help. There are no guarantees, but…”

  Ellen stared at her, a fire flaring beneath her skin to think
this woman knew what had happened. But then perhaps it had happened to her too.

  “Do you wish me to tell you?”

  “Yes…” The word was whispered. But now I need to go to my son.

  Ellen hurried out of the room, rushing past her to escape the sense of shame.

  “But I shall come then, ma’am, because if you are to do something to prevent it, you must do so now.”

  The maid hurried up the stairs behind, Ellen.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Ellen knelt on the floor beside her son. John sat upright, playing with some wooden animals which the maid had bought him from a carver in the market.

  Paris was still busy, flooded with hundreds of tourists, and people came to the city to make money from them – people whose property and land had been spoiled by war, as her own life had been. But her life was barren in a different way.

  After the battle of Waterloo she’d seen some of the physical wounds stitched.

  John was the stitches holding her together. She lived only for these moments of quiet peace, when they played together and she could pretend the rest of her life was not a tangled, jagged wreck.

  “Ball, now.” John looked across the room, at the ball which they’d been playing with earlier, then turned onto one knee and set off for it at a fast crawl. He stirred her heart whatever he did. She had never thought it possible to love anything or anyone so utterly.

  When he returned with it he held it up towards her. “Throw, Mama.”

  She caught him up into her arms, without taking the ball from him, instead tipping him backwards. Then she blew a loud kiss on his neck, which she knew would tickle. He laughed. It was the most beautiful sound, like water running over rocks in a stream, and a wave washing over pebbles on the seashore.

  “Mama, throw.” He lifted the ball again once he stopped laughing. He had a stubborn streak, and a strength of will like his father’s. She brushed back his black hair and looked into eyes the colour of her own.

  “I love you…” she whispered and kissed his brow, before taking the ball from his hand, and tossing it upwards. He looked up and laughed again. Her heart ached.