* * * *
“I should ask you the same question,” Dalrymple responded, his voice husky.
“I am helping in any way I can, but there is so little I can do.”
Dalrymple smoothed his wife’s untidy hair back from her forehead. He kissed her flushed cheek then held her a little away from him. Unbelievable! His hitherto elegant bride’s apron, forearms and hands, were bloody. In spite of her pale face with a smear of dried blood on her chin, she stood before him as straight as a lance. Guilt surged through him because he had not been able to protect her from the aftermath of a bloody battle. Yet he was proud of her, so would he have objected to her helping to take care of incapacitated soldiers?
“Did Jarvis deliver your cavalry boots?”
A soldier tugged Helen’s skirt. “A drink, ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Helen looked down. “Lieutenant Calverly!” she exclaimed. “Of course, I will fetch some water. Oh, it seems so long since you untied my apron strings.”
“A world away.” Calverly closed his eyes.
Dalrymple’s eyes narrowed at the mental picture of the handsome young man untying the knots, but this was not the moment to ask his wife why Calverly had done so.
“Some water for the lieutenant,” Dalrymple said to one of the footmen, who were helping to look after the patients. An arm around his wife’s waist, he guided her to the door. “Time for you to go home.”
“But—”
“You have done enough. Your sister told me where you were, so I came to fetch you in a carriage. Don’t argue. You are so tired you can hardly stand.” There was scarcely room to walk between the mattresses, so he swept her up into his arms and carried her out to the carriage.
On the short journey to the Tarrant’s house, she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.
“Wake up, Helen.” He spoke softly into his wife’s ear, after the horses drew to a halt. When she did not stir, he smiled down at her, although he had not recovered from the shock of finding her in the midst of such an appalling scene. He smoothed her hair back. “Helen, wake up.”
“I shall never forget those poor men and boys,” she murmured, no more than half awake.
“I know, but please come indoors; you need to bathe, eat and sleep.”
Dalrymple sighed. Although he admired her courage, she would have been spared those gruesome sights if he had insisted she retreat to Ghent or Antwerp.
Helen sat up and looked at him. “You have not answered my question. Why are you here?” Her eyes widened in her pale face. “What of Cousin Tarrant? Is he—?”
“No need to fear for him,” he interrupted, his voice husky. “The Glory Boys did not take part in the conflict at Quatre Bras, where, you must have heard, the French were defeated at great cost.”
“It doesn’t explain what you are doing here,” Helen repeated as he helped her out of the carriage.
“Uxbridge has brought the cavalry to Genappe where Wellington and his senior officers are putting up. Makelyn, with Tarrant in attendance, is among them. The Glory Boys have bivouacked nearby, so I took the opportunity to come here and fetch an umbrella,” he explained, for he did not wish to mention military matters.
“What?”
He laughed at her astonishment. “If the rain continues, I shall be glad of an umbrella.”
As they went up the steps to the front door, a flash of lightning illuminated his bride’s indignant expression. “I hoped you came to see me.”
“What do you think? Of course I did. Yesterday, I wanted to be with you more than anything else in the world. I could not stop thinking of you.” In spite of the dried blood and her dishevelled hair, he found his bride adorable. “I am sorry for teasing you about an umbrella. “He would wait until later to ask her who gave her permission to turn the late Mister Barnet’s house into a hospital.
* * * *
Her husband guided Helen into the house. Frightened servants, alerted by his tattoo on the front door, ran downstairs to answer the summons. Fletcher in a red dressing gown, maids in nightgowns—shawls around their shoulders—and footmen, who had pulled on whichever clothes came to hand.
Georgianne followed them. Her candlestick wavered.
Helen looked at her sister by the light of the sweet-smelling beeswax candle, in pleasant contrast to the stink of blood and urine which filled her own house.
Georgianne slipped an arm around her waist. “What have you been doing? Are you hurt? Is that your blood on your apron?” She sank down onto the stairs.
Helen shook her head while Pringle, who had reached the hall, screeched at the sight of her. “Stop that noise,” Helen ordered. “Georgianne, don’t be shocked. I was helping to nurse the soldiers.” She looked at the huddle of servants. “Captain Dalrymple is hungry. Fletcher, arrange for food and drink to be brought to my parlour. Pringle, fetch water for me to wash.”
“Lawks, Boney will get us,” the page boy snivelled.
“Not if our army can prevent him,” Dalrymple reassured the young man. “Wellington defeated the French at Quatre Bras, so there is no need for alarm.” A few long steps took him to his sister-in-law. “You should be proud of my wife. She is a merciful angel.”
“Yes, Captain, I know she is. Come, you shall wash and prepare for bed.”
“No, Pringle will look after me. I insist you take care of yourself. If I were not in such a state, I would tuck you up in bed.”
“There is no need, dearest; we shall speak in the morning.”
“How selfish of me not to ask how you are, Dalrymple,” Helen commenced when they entered their apartment. “I cannot imagine how many hours you have ridden today; you must be worn to the bone.”
Dalrymple put his hand in front of his mouth to conceal a yawn. “Only a little. After food and some sleep, I shall be ready to re-join Makelyn. Do you think your sister could spare a few bottles of wine for him? If I’m lucky, he will offer me a glass.”
“How can you speak as if you are going to a picnic?”
The laughter in his eyes quenched, he sighed.
A knock on the door. Pringle opened it. “There is hot water in your dressing room, madam.” She looked at the stubble on Dalrymple’s chin. “And there is some in yours, Captain.”
* * * *
Her face and hands clean, and her soiled clothes exchanged for a lace trimmed nightgown and a robe de chambre made for her trousseau, Helen returned to their parlour.
Dalrymple joined her. His chin was shaved and he was dressed in a nightshirt worn beneath a banyan made of gold-coloured, heavy silk. He smiled at her. “You are so beautiful.”
“And you look splendid,” Helen replied, surprised by her unexpected shyness. She gestured to a small table laden with bread, butter, cold cuts of roast meats and ham, cheese, pickles and a decanter of wine. “Shall we eat? I daresay you are as hungry as I am.”
After they sat, he served her before he piled his plate with food, and poured wine for both of them.
She finished her meal first, then watched him sympathetically while he demolished everything on his plate. “You were hungry,” she remarked, after he declared he could not manage another mouthful.
He nodded and yawned yet again, his hand once more across his mouth. “With your permission, I would like to snatch some sleep.” He stood, came around the table and held out his arm.
A quiver ran through her. Would he kiss her? Hold her close?
After they settled in bed, he propped himself up on one elbow, bent forward and kissed her forehead. “Forgive me.”
“For what?”
He hesitated before he spoke. “For being so sleepy, I promise to be more attentive in the future.”
She stared up at him.
“Don’t look so worried, sweetheart. I doubt battle will commence tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Wellington and Boney will need to deploy their troops. But don’t fret, I shall enjoy the chase when Makelyn orders The Glory Boys to advance ag
ainst the enemy.”
“The chase?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I look forward to pursuing the French. It is much more satisfactory than hunting a fox. Can you imagine the fun when The Glory Boys charge?”
“Fun!” Helen scowled. How could he speak with such insouciance? Did he have no fears? “All I want is for the nightmare to be over, and for you to return safely to me.”
“My love, do you think that is not what I wish for?” Her husband’s dear face swooped down toward her. His kiss lingered in her memory, long after he snuffed out the candle. When she woke in the morning, Dalrymple had left without giving her the opportunity to say goodbye. She trembled. She could only pray for him with the hope it would not have been a final one.
* * * *
.
New arrivals swelled the number of soldiers bedded down at Helen’s house, where, after a hasty breakfast, she helped to attend to the soldiers’ needs.
Once again, oppressive heat added to the men’s discomfort. The servants refilled bucket after bucket of water from the pump in the courtyard.
Helen helped a captain take off his scarlet wool coat.
“It is as hot as the devil’s forge. Puts me in mind of India, where we sweltered day after day,” he recounted.
India! A picture of her ball, at which the blue boy presided over all the other decorations, entered her mind.
She looked around. All of the unfortunate patients had tales to tell. She dipped a cloth into a bucket of water, squeezed out the excess, and bathed the captain’s face. “Perhaps the windows should be opened to let in some air.” She spoke more to herself than to her patient.
“I think not, madam.”
Puzzled, she looked down at him.
“The flies, there are swarms of them outside; enough of the little devils are buzzing around in here without inviting more.”
Although Helen was very busy, the morning seemed to pass slowly, while news trickled in with tortuous tardiness. At some time after noon, Thomas took a trip to the only nearby pharmacy still stocked with supplies. When he returned, he came straight to her, his stained coat long since discarded. Sweat-dampened shirt sleeves clung to his arms. “Good and bad news, Mrs Dalrymple. Yesterday, Wellington defeated the French troops commanded by Marshall Ney, but the Frenchies beat the Prussians at Ligny. It’s said our army’s marching toward Brussels.”
“Don’t be frightened, Hookey won’t let the French come ‘ere,” said a wounded private, as Helen removed the makeshift bandage from his mangled foot.
“It would take more than them to scare me,” she lied, and handed the soldier a mug of rum to take the edge off his agony.
During the afternoon, the influx of new arrivals lessened, but there was no more news. Fear for Dalrymple, Cousin Tarrant, and her many friends and acquaintances, stalked Helen
A gentle hand clasped her arm. “You have done enough for today, my child.” Sister Imelda spoke quietly in her ear. “I have sent for your carriage. If anyone tries to steal it, the coachman and two grooms—whom I have armed with whips—will beat them off.”
The nun’s mention of whips astonished Helen. “Surely that won’t be necessary.”
“I hope not, but many of your countrymen and women have panicked, and seek any means to escape from Brussels. They are so desperate to leave that one does not know what they might do.”
* * * *
Startled, Helen opened her eyes. What was that noise? Where was she? Of course, after she had returned to her sister’s house, and washed—prior to changing into an evening gown—she had dined with Georgianne, and must have fallen asleep on the chaise longue. “Canon fire!” she exclaimed, her sensibilities shredded.
“No, no dearest, thunder.” Georgianne put her book down. “Don’t you remember the storm broke soon after you came home?”
Helen rubbed her eyes. “Of course, how foolish of me to forget.” Wind still drove torrents of rain against the windows. A streak of lightning lit up the salon. Chaotic thoughts rushed through her mind. She hoped Dalrymple’s umbrella would protect him. Heaven help the troops who bivouacked in such weather. “Some news at last?” she asked, when the double doors swung open.
Large drops fell onto the exquisite carpet from Langley’s cape and waterlogged uniform. As he strode toward them, his boots left muddy footprints. But what did some dirt matter? Helen and Georgianne sprang to their feet.
“Have you news of Tarrant?” Her voice reached fever pitch as she pressed her hands pressed against her throat.
“I brought him here. Fletcher, and one of your footmen have already helped me to carry him to his bedchamber and he is being stripped of his uniform. He is injured, and unconscious, but not, I think, fatally.”
Georgianne fled toward the door. At the threshold, she turned. “How can I ever thank you?”
“No need, I fear I might have done you a disservice. The ride from Genappe to Brussels has not done him any good. At one point, it seemed my horse would flounder in the mud and I would lose my grip on Rupes.”
Georgianne looked at him wide-eyed. “You rode all the way with him before you on the saddle? You are a saint! Helen, look after Langley. Some dry clothes. I think he and Tarrant are the same size. And food.” She whirled round and ran out of the salon.
Helen eyed his lordship warily, although she could not deny he was a good friend to her family. Fletcher entered the room carrying a tray with a glass on it. “Brandy, my lord?”
“Good man; nothing like spirits to warm one. The troops breakfasted on beef washed down with rum before Wellington gave them the order to withdraw to Mont St Jean.” He downed the drink. “My apologies, Mrs Dalrymple.” He removed his cape and handed it to Fletcher. “My baggage did not catch up with me, so I am not a sight for a lady.” He gestured to the torn gold lace on his dress uniform, a missing epaulette and the ripped sleeve on the left side of his coat.
“You are shivering, Langley. Fletcher, have a fire lit. Some hot food for his lordship. You may serve it here.” She turned around. “Would you prefer to change your clothes or eat first?” she asked Langley, too frightened to press for news of her own husband. In case it was bad, she would delay questioning the viscount for as long possible.
“Food first.” Langley waited to be alone with her before he spoke again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
17th June, 1815
Helen looked around the elegant salon furnished in salmon pink and gold, the scene of so many convivial Sunday gatherings. She breathed unevenly, too anxious to question Langley, who stood, his face stark, with his back to the fireplace.
Two footmen, who carried buckets of small logs, entered the room. After they lit a fire, they withdrew. Alone with Langley, Helen was too scared to question him about Dalrymple for fear the answer would break her heart.
His lordship crossed the width of the large carpet to the fireplace and held his hands out toward the heat. “Ah,” he said, after a few moments, “Much better. We were chilled to the bone out there. With your permission, I shall remove my wet coat.”
“Please do,” she responded, through stiff lips, “but perhaps you should change all your wet clothes before food is served.”
Langley shook his head. “There is something I must tell you,” he explained, his tone hollow.
If her husband had been wounded or worse, she could not face it. “Is - is Cousin Tarrant badly wounded?”
“Yes,” Langley said gently, “his leg is damaged by cannon shot and he has lost a lot of blood, but I wanted to say something else.”
“Someone told me The Glory Boys did not participate in the action at Quatre Bras.”
“You are right, but allow me to explain what happened afterward?”
Good. For the moment, her words diverted him from whatever news he might have of her husband.
Langley shrugged himself out of his coat.
She stared at the blood which stained the left sleeve of his shirt. “You are wounded!”
&nb
sp; “A musket ball grazed my arm.”
While the question of Dalrymple’s fate filled her mind, Helen summoned servants and ordered them to bring hot water and bandages.
“No need to concern yourself, it’s only a scratch,” Langley reassured her.
“Nonsense, I have helped to nurse the casualties since the first ones arrived in Brussels.” She took a pair of scissors from Georgianne’s sewing box. “These will do to cut your shirt sleeve.”
“No, no, please don’t inconvenience yourself. One of the footmen can attend to me. Although the wound is trivial, an ugly sight is not fit for your eyes.”
After hot water, bandages and other necessities were brought, Helen ignored Langley’s repeated protests. Again and again he tried to distract her from her task. Relentless, she cut his shirt sleeve from wrist to shoulder.
“You have ruined a good shirt,” he teased.
“I shall buy you another one.” She winced at the sight of blood soaked linen stuck to his skin.
Langley’s fingers enclosed her wrist. “Thank you for your help but, as I said—”
“Do be quiet unless you are too frightened to allow me to treat you?”
“Frightened! If only I could make you listen—”
“Yes, yes, I daresay you would challenge me to a duel,” she ribbed him as if he were a peevish invalid. “This might hurt, but don’t be afraid, my lord.”
Langley’s arm stiffened. “I am not a weakling.”
Helen clamped her lips between her teeth. Afraid of conversation, because it would force her to question him about Dalrymple, she admitted her cowardice.
She applied a sponge soaked in water to free Langley’s wound from the linen which adhered to it. “When were you and Cousin Tarrant injured?”
“After Wellington received news of Blucher retreating from Ligny—in order to maintain communication with him—he commanded the army to withdraw to Waterloo. We were fortunate because Napoleon did not return to Quatre Bras until the afternoon, so our troops had time to retreat, protected from the French lancers by our cavalry.”
Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2) Page 30