“Darling.” She pulled her fingers free of his grip and took his face between her hands. “You can’t save everyone.”
“Of course not. It would be hubris to think so. Not to mention idiocy.”
“But you still feel guilty when you can’t.”
He shook his head. “Wellington came through unscathed. But Blackwell told me Uxbridge had his leg shattered just at the end of the battle, when his horse was scarce more than a hand’s breadth from Wellington’s. He’ll lose his leg.” He drew a breath. “I was almost done for myself. When I was rescuing Davenport. A chasseur was coming straight at me.”
A chill shot through her. “What happened?”
“Someone shot him in the back. Whoever it was, I’ll be forever grateful to him.”
She wrapped her arms round him and pressed her face into the hollow of his throat. “So will I.”
Cordelia folded Harry’s hand between her own and sat bolt upright in her straight-back chair. He was frighteningly pale, his hair and the brown stubble on his jaw stark against his ashen skin, but she thought his breathing seemed a bit easier. Or perhaps it was simply that she was desperate to latch onto some reason to hope.
She studied the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and realized that this was the first time she’d properly watched him sleep. Even when they’d lived together, he would visit her room and then retire to his own to sleep, after the practice of fashionable Mayfair couples.
No, that wasn’t quite true. She remembered once, early in their marriage, waking to the unexpected pressure of an arm flung across her and the feel of warm breath stirring her hair. She’d turned her head on the pillow to see Harry’s face, relaxed in sleep in a way she’d never seen it in waking. She’d watched him for a few moments, an unexpected warmth welling up in her that might have been tenderness.
His gaze had flown open. For a moment it had lingered on her own, soft with warmth. Then reality came thundering back. Harry drew away, clutching the sheet over him. “Sorry,” he’d mumbled. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
She’d clutched at the sheet herself, feeling as though she’d been caught waltzing at Almack’s without permission from the patronesses. Amazing how uncomfortable one could feel lying in bed with one’s own husband.
If she’d reached out and caught his hand then, instead of watching as he struggled into his dressing gown and slipped from the room—Would anything have been different?
It all seemed so absurd now as she watched him fighting for his life. And yet if he recovered, if they tried to go on together—if he even wanted to—that was the world they’d go back to.
Suzanne brought her a cup of sweetened tea and gave her a hug. “I looked in on Livia. She’s still sound asleep.”
Cordelia forced herself to sip the tea, knowing she needed the strength. She had finished the cup and the sky was beginning to turn a pale charcoal beyond the window when Harry finally stirred. She thought it was the feverish restlessness again, but his gaze fastened on her face. His eyes were sleep clouded but focused. “Cordy?”
His voice came out rough and harsh, but it drove the fear from her lungs. “Good morning, Harry.”
“What are you doing here?”
She dropped to her knees beside the bed so her face was level with his. “This is my room. You’re in the Rue Ducale.”
He frowned, shook his head slightly, winced. “Damned fool Rannoch. Damned generous fool. Thought I was done for.”
“How much do you remember?”
His brows drew together. “Took a shot to the chest.”
“Malcolm Rannoch found you on the battlefield. In the mud. Dr. Blackwell bandaged your wound.”
“Hurts like the devil.”
“You have two cracked ribs as well. Here.” She reached for the laudanum. “This will help.”
He pushed her hand away. “Is there news?”
“The battle’s won. The French are in retreat.”
A faint smile lit his eyes. “Thank God some good came of all the carnage.” His gaze moved over her face. “Don’t know if George survived—”
“That doesn’t—”
“But I saw Tony Chase die in a French uniform. He took a bayonet meant for John Ashton.”
Shock and relief that Johnny had apparently survived shot through her. Followed by an unexpected jolt of grief. She had an image of Tony as a seven-year-old boy, front teeth missing, climbing an apple tree.
“Sorry,” Harry said. “He was your friend.”
“A long time ago.” She struggled to sort through the implications. “He died saving Johnny?”
“I think he did it for his sister.”
Harry’s eyes closed, and she thought he slept again. “Thank you,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
His eyes flew open. “For what?”
“For coming back.”
“Damned ironic.”
“What?”
“For the first time in my life I went into a battle wanting quite desperately to survive. And I very nearly didn’t. May not.”
“Don’t talk foolishness, Harry. I have no intention of letting you die.”
His eyes drifted closed again. “Never knew you so determined.” His head sank deeper into the pillow. But as she returned to her chair to settle in while he slept, she heard him murmur, “Your name.”
“What?” She leaned forward, not sure she’d heard him aright.
His eyes opened and fastened on her face for a moment, clear and focused. “Your name. Last thing I said before I lost consciousness with my face in the mud.”
Henri Rivaux turned feverish in the early hours of the morning, thrashing on his pallet. Suzanne cleaned his wound, bathed it with an infusion of comfrey, and helped Rachel wash him with cool cloths to bring down the fever. Rachel worked with quiet determination, mouth set, though her lips trembled slightly. Another of the wounded, a sergeant in the Rifles, had died just after the news of victory. Simon and Addison had gone to arrange for his burial.
Malcolm touched her on the shoulder to murmur that he and David were going back to the battlefield to bring back more wounded and to try to learn what had become of his brother.
“Don’t worry if we’re gone for some time,” Malcolm said, his fingers tightening on her shoulder. “The roads are an impassable hell. But the fighting’s done. We won’t come to mischief.”
She nodded and turned her head to press her lips against his hand. The lowering truth was that she was oddly relieved to see him go. All the while she nursed the wounded and made sure there was food for the household and looked in on the children, a weight of sorrow tore at her chest. A sorrow she couldn’t share with Malcolm, the man with whom she shared so much. A barrier had slammed up between them. A barrier that had been there from the moment they met, but that she had learned to ignore, to look past, to step through. Yet on this morning of victory for the Allies, it had never been more clear that he was a British gentleman and she was a French revolutionary.
Just after eight, she took Cordelia a tray of tea and toast. Colonel Davenport was asleep. “He woke briefly and seemed quite himself,” Cordelia said, “though weak and in a great deal of pain.”
“It’s an excellent sign that he was coherent. Were you able to talk?”
Cordelia nodded. Her eyes held a mixture of hope, fear, and wonder, but she merely said, “How does Lieutenant Rivaux get on?”
“We’ve got the fever down. I think Rachel’s going to keep him alive on sheer determination.”
“I understand how she feels.” Cordelia reached out and smoothed her husband’s hair. “There’s a blessed sort of clarity in the situation. They’re hurt, and they need us. The barriers are down. It’s crystal clear where we belong.”
“And afterwards?” Suzanne asked.
Cordelia’s eyes turned bleak. “Afterwards we’re still going to live in the world we inhabited before the battle. But I’m not letting myself think that far ahead.”
“Don’t,” Suz
anne advised. “You’ll ruin it before it’s had a chance to properly begin.”
Cordelia stared at her, like one looking into hell without flinching. “Some things are beyond forgiveness. Oh, perhaps they can be forgiven in a theoretical sort of way. One can make grand, sweeping promises in a moment of great emotion. But to live day in, day out with someone who’s betrayed you in the worst way—I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t think you would, either, on rational reflection. You’re much too sensible a person.”
Suzanne felt a knot of cold tighten round her heart. “That leaves aside the question of what sort of betrayal is the worst.”
“I know what I did to Harry. If I didn’t understand it before, I realized it these last few days in Brussels.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Suzanne said. “Or yourself.”
Cordelia smiled but shook her head.
Suzanne went into the nursery where the children, probably the only people in the house to have got a good night’s sleep, were breakfasting with Blanca and their nurses.
Colin greeted her with a cheerful smile. “We won.”
Suzanne nearly vomited her tea and toast onto the gleaming nursery floorboards. She could feel Blanca’s concerned gaze on her. Later they would have to talk. “Yes,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “The Allies had a great victory.”
“My daddy was hurt,” Livia said.
“But he’s doing very well.” That was the thing about children. They forced you to keep going and not dwell on losses. “Your mummy’s looking after him.”
“Can I see him?”
“Perhaps in a bit. He’s sleeping now.” Suzanne touched Robbie’s hair. “We hope your daddy will be here soon. He was well the last time your uncle Harry saw him.”
Robbie nodded. “Lots of people died.”
“A horrible number. We’re very fortunate so many of the people we love survived.”
After she left the nursery, she sat with Harry for a time so Cordelia could go in and reassure Livia and Robbie. Harry stirred occasionally but didn’t waken. When Cordelia returned, Suzanne went into her own bedchamber, put on a gypsy hat, and tossed a mantilla into one of her larger reticules.
“I’m going out for a bit,” she told Aline. “We need more laudanum.”
Aline nodded. Her face was gray with exhaustion, but her eyes were lighter than they’d been last night. The worst was over. A shocking number of her friends were gone, but her husband was safe and the British had prevailed.
Horses no longer stood before houses in the Rue Ducale, ready for imminent flight. But more wounded men lined the streets, and Suzanne passed carts bringing in fresh casualties. She stopped to give water to the wounded until no more was left in the flask she carried.
She didn’t stop at Madame Longé’s. She was too exhausted to go through the motions now things were over to all intents and purposes. Which was foolish, because the need for secrecy would never be gone. But right now she didn’t care. She was as drained and spent as she imagined a prizefighter would feel after a match. A losing match. She slipped into a gap between two houses, pulled off her gypsy hat and stuffed it into her reticule, and then replaced it with the mantilla.
Down the alley, along the familiar passage, up the stairs, to the door she had got to know so well during her months in Brussels. A part of her didn’t really believe he’d be there, even when he answered her thrush call. But when she pushed open the door, she caught the familiar smell of his shaving soap, overlaid by stale sweat.
He pushed himself to his feet at her entrance but made no move to come toward her. The light slanting through the high windows showed her that apparently he had received no further hurt. She stared at the familiar bones of his face and felt the breath rush from her lungs. In his eyes, she saw desolation and shattered hopes that were the twin of her own. For a moment, she wanted to run and hide in his arms. Instead, she leaned against the closed door and said the words that most needed to be said. “I’m through.”
49
Something flared in his eyes. Not surprise but a flash of acknowledgment that might have been sadness. “I thought as much.”
She took two quick, determined steps into the room. Her mantilla slithered to the floor. “This isn’t another attack of conscience. I’m done. I’m getting out. I’m not your agent anymore.”
“Clearly stated.”
She dropped down on the edge of the cot and gripped its wooden frame. She mistrusted that mild tone. “It’s over.” Her voice shook, beyond her control. “We lost.”
“It’s never entirely over.” Raoul sat beside her, a few inches of gray blanket between them. “But we were certainly dealt a decisive blow. Not only has the game changed, it will be played on an entirely different board.”
“Damn it, Raoul.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s not a game.”
“Of course it is.” He caught her wrist in a gentle grip. “A game with life-and-death stakes and people’s future and liberty hanging in the balance.”
“I’ll still fight for the things I believe in,” she said, perhaps a little too firmly, because she couldn’t bear for there to be any doubt on this score. “But I’ll only act openly as Malcolm’s wife.”
He nodded. “Knowing you, not to mention Malcolm, I imagine you’ll be able to accomplish a great deal.”
“I mean it. I won’t dwindle into a wife.”
His mouth curved in a faint smile. “I don’t think you could if you tried.” He looked at her for a moment. She had the oddest sense he was memorizing her features. “I think you’ve made a wise choice.”
“For God’s sake, Raoul.” She pulled free of his grip. “What game are you playing? You’re never so magnanimous without an ulterior purpose.”
“We’ve never been in circumstances like these.”
“I’m serious. I won’t work as your agent anymore.”
“I know. I’ll miss you.”
For some reason, that was when her throat closed and tears prickled the back of her eyes. She turned her head to the side, unable to bear the pressure of his gaze. “All these years. The fighting, the lying, the compromising. Twisting ideals to meet necessity. And this is where it got us.”
“One can never see where it will take one. All one can do is hold on to what one believes in.”
“Damn you, stop it with the platitudes.” Her fingers dug into the coarse blanket. “You have to feel it, too. It’s over. Bourbons on the throne of France for good, reforms repealed, monarchs grabbing for power. Castlereagh and Metternich and their ilk trying to turn the clock back on every shred of progress since the Revolution. Wasted years, wasted lives—”
Her chest ached from the lost purpose, wrenched from her at the news of the French defeat. The thing that had kept her going after the loss of her family, that had given her a focus, that had been the core of who she was. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking. A sob tore through her.
Raoul’s arms closed round her. She pushed against him, desperate to strike out at something. Then she drew a sharp breath and sobbed into his chest, clinging to him as though to her last remnants of herself, until the rage had drained from her, leaving her empty and winded.
“You can never let yourself think your work’s gone for naught,” he said, stroking her hair. “Or you’ll go mad. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
She drew back and looked up at him. “Ireland.” She’d spent many evenings hearing him talk about the failure of the United Irish Uprising in 1798, anger and regret sharp in his voice.
“And the Revolution.” Raoul had been a passionate supporter of the Revolution, but he’d found himself imprisoned in Les Carmes and had nearly gone to the guillotine. “One has to go on and do the best one can. Which I’m sure you’ll continue to do.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Easy?” His voice cut with sudden force. “There’s nothing easy about it. Do you think I haven’t rethought every decision I’ve made a dozen times, haven’t asked my
self—” He shook his head. “But believe me, believe me, querida, you’ll find a way to go on. Because there’s no other choice.”
She stared at him, memories coming thick and fast. His hands tossing her into the saddle or showing her how to load a pistol. His voice drilling her on court protocol or correcting her accent. His arm secure round her as she drifted into sleep. The steady trust in his eyes when he sent her on her first mission. “Are you saying this is what you want?”
“No.” The short word held layers of meaning. “But I think it’s what’s best for you.” He pushed her hair behind her ear with a tenderness that was somehow in a very different key from the days when they’d been lovers.
“Since when does what’s best for any of us matter more than the cause?”
“My dear girl. I’m not nearly so single-minded or such a schemer as you make me out to be.” He hesitated a moment. “Philippe was killed.”
She bit her lip. Fresh tears stung her eyes. “I have a letter for his sweetheart.”
“Do you want me to—”
“No. I know where to send it.” She got to her feet and picked up her mantilla. “What will you do now?” she asked, running the black lace through her fingers.
“I’ll manage.”
She swung her gaze back to him. “You don’t trust me anymore.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He got to his feet as well. “But our interests no longer neatly align. No sense in putting either of us in an awkward situation.”
She nodded. Practicality, that was what was called for, and a cool head. She turned to the cracked looking glass and tried to pin her hair into some semblance of order.
Raoul leaned against the wall behind her. “In a few days or a few weeks you’re going to feel an intolerable burden of guilt. Try to remember that guilt is a singularly wasteful emotion.”
She met his gaze in the spotted looking glass. “Who says I’ll feel guilty?”
“My intuition. You won’t like the fact that you’ve betrayed your husband.”
She gave a rough laugh. “I’ve been betraying Malcolm from the day I married him. The day I met him if it comes to that.”
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