Monday's Child (Heroines born on each day of the week. Book 2)

by Rosemary Morris

  Helen peeled the wet linen away from Langley’s deep flesh wound. “You have not answered my question.”

  “We fell afoul of the French at Genappe.” He caught his breath as she removed shreds of linen and wool with tweezers.

  “I am trying not to hurt you, my lord, but your wound is ugly. I must clean it so it will not fester.” She teased out another scrap of black thread. “What happened at Genappe?”

  “Keen to engage the French, Uxbridge led the rear guard in a charge against Ney’s French lancers, along the village high street.”

  Although blood oozed after she removed a deeply embedded strand of linen, Langley bore the pain without complaint. “Did you defeat them?” she asked, with the hope he would speak about Dalrymple, although she dreaded bad news.

  “Of course, the Glory Boys did not disappoint Uxbridge.” He sighed. “A nasty business, not made easier by torrential rain which turned the ground into a quagmire. After a fierce encounter, they were forced to retreat and reform. The lancers did not follow, allowing the wounded to be saved. I beg your pardon; you cannot be interested in this. You will think I am an insensitive brute, but I must tell you—” he broke off.

  Her hands trembled. Her stomach clenched. “Tell me what?”

  “While I tried to deliver a message from Makelyn, Uxbridge ordered the cavalry to retreat.” He spoke carefully, causing her to sense that he intended to say something else. “The rain increased, lightning streaked across the sky and thunder rolled. Neither horse nor man could see ahead of them. Yet The Glory Boys charged against those damned French who blocked the street with their lances pointed at us. A bullet winged me while I took a message to Makelyn, and a lance pierced Rupes and—well, never mind that for now.

  “Lady Luck favoured us because the lancers did not pursue, so we took our wounded, including Rupes, to safety. Now, please bandage my arm. After I eat, I must change my clothes and report to Makelyn.”

  She frowned. Had he been about to give her some entirely different news? “Your arm is injured. How can you ride? Surely you will not be expected to return? You have already done your duty.”

  “I’ve suffered worse than this and fought on.”

  “If you say so.” She pulled the bell rope.

  The butler, who must have been waiting near the door, entered the salon, his steps less stately than usual.

  “Fletcher,” Helen began, “please bring a bottle of brandy.”

  Langley smiled. “Aha, at last, something more to fortify me.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, the brandy is to cleanse your wound.” She frowned. “Fletcher, after you have brought it, send for a doctor. I think the gash should be stitched.”

  The butler inclined his head. “There is no need to do so, madam. Doctor Longspring is with Major Tarrant. Before he leaves, I shall ask him to attend to his lordship.”

  Langley straightened his back. “How is the major?”

  “There is talk of amputation, my lord.” Fletcher replied. His eyes moist, he went out of the salon.

  “Confound it!” Langley exclaimed. “After Rupes was wounded in the Peninsular, the sawbones saved his leg; please God don’t let another one hack if off now.” With a groan, he sank against the back of his chair.

  Helen pressed her hand against his forehead. “Feverish, I am not surprised. You were soaked bringing Cousin Tarrant here. We must take care of you.”

  His eyes blazed when he looked up at her. “My poor girl, what do I matter? Even now, most of my men are hungry and cold, bivouacked in this damnable rain.”

  Accidentally, perhaps, his finger brushed hers. The atmosphere stilled, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel piece.

  Why had he called her his ‘poor girl’? For a moment she imagined her heart would stop beating. Motionless, she stared at him. She summoned her reluctant courage. “Langley, is there something I should know?”

  “Yes—” before he could complete the sentence, Fletcher brought the brandy.

  “Thank you. Open the bottle and give it to me, then please steady his lordship’s arm while I pour the spirit onto his wound.”

  “I don’t need anyone to hold me,” Langley muttered. “I am not a milksop.”

  “I know you are not, my lord, but the sting is sure to make you jerk.”

  Fletcher stood behind the viscount’s chair, leaned forward and imprisoned his arm with both hands.

  Helen poured the brandy into the ugly laceration. Although Langley clamped his lips together, a groan escaped him.

  “You are fortunate, my lord, the bullet passed through your flesh without penetrating the bone.” She bandaged his arm.

  Langley whispered a curse before he raised his right hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  She ignored the expletive. “Thank you for your assistance, Fletcher. Please bring a shirt for his lordship before food is served. While he eats make sure fresh clothes are laid out for him. Lord Langley and Major Tarrant’s sizes are similar. I think my cousin’s spare uniform will fit his lordship.”

  Her heart raged with fear as Helen crossed the room to gaze into the heart of the fire. A few hours ago she sat with her husband while he ate. She must, really must, ask Langley a question no young bride should have to voice. Yet, in the depths of her being, she did not want to hear the answer, for her sixth sense told her the news could not be worse.

  Even if Dalrymple had been injured, no matter how seriously, surely Langley would have told her when he arrived instead of calling her ‘his poor girl’. Well, she could not avoid the truth forever. “Is there any news of Dalrymple?” she asked, her back toward him.

  In a dreamlike state she heard the viscount’s firm footsteps cross the salon.

  * * * *

  Langley stood so close behind Helen that he could smell the faint fragrance of her perfume. Accustomed to the sight of injured men and death, he would have given almost anything not to be the one to confront Helen with the truth. Ladies should always be protected from anything unpleasant, but he could not shield this admirable young bride. He wished she could have been spared the sights of injured and dying men. It required no imagination to visualise the harrowing scenes she had witnessed. Moreover, he admired the way she had tended his wound.

  “Helen,” he ventured, to delay the moment when he must confront her with the truth, “for the sake of our friendship, I hope you will not object to my addressing you by your Christian name. I apologise for the unpardonable kiss I forced on you at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.”

  “I don’t know if I can forgive you and I don’t understand why—”

  “Why I kissed you?”

  She nodded, adorable wisps of hair dancing on the nape of her neck.

  “Out of insane jealousy because you married Dalrymple.”

  “Why? After all, you did not love me enough to marry me.”

  Did he hear a tinge of regret in her voice? “I loved you too much to marry you without the means to support you in comfort. The sale at Christies would only have paid off the mortgage and Father’s creditors. My own money merely paid for my sister Charlotte’s London Season. Although Mamma wrote to tell me she is to marry well. Papa is almost penniless. As the future Earl, I accept responsibility for my younger brothers and sisters. The truth is, much as I love you, I could not bear to subject you, as my wife, to the same privations I would have had to tolerate.”

  “Love me?”

  “Yes, please forgive me for saying this, one more time, before I leave you to return to Makelyn. I shall love you until the day I die.”

  Helen turned around. Her glorious green eyes gazed into his. “Perhaps; but I think you will fall in love with and marry a lady more suited to you than I.” She bowed her head. “Langley, I am sorry for having been a silly schoolroom miss with a head stuffed with romantic novels. When you rescued me, you fitted my image of a hero, so I imagined I loved you. Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” He guided her to a c
hair and knelt beside her. “If you loved Dalrymple, he might have made you happier than I ever could.”

  Helen swayed. “If I loved him?” Her eyes widened. “What do you mean by ‘might have made me happier’?” She shuddered. “You cannot mean—. No, I will not, indeed cannot voice the question.”

  “I am sorrier than I can say. From the moment I arrived, I tried to decide how to frame the words to tell you of his fate, but could not find the right ones.”

  Helen’s forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. Her eyes glittered by firelight with unshed tears. “You are sure?” She pressed her hand above her heart like a soldier who had received a death blow.

  “Yes, I am certain. I can only repeat how sorry I am.”

  “Coward! You should have told me when you arrived.”

  “Please forgive me. You are right, but I did not know how to break the news gently.”

  Her lips quivered. “How—“

  “I am so sorry to be the one to tell you that a French soldier thrust his lance at Dalrymple’s chest. Your husband toppled to the ground. No man could have survived such an injury.”

  He admired her more than ever. Another lady would have given way to copious tears. In keeping with her supremely calm character, Helen had herself well in hand. He wanted to draw her close and comfort her but feared she would push him away. Instead, he inclined his head. His heart overflowed with pity. “Please believe me when I say I will always be at your service. Never hesitate to ask me if I can be of assistance to you.” He refrained from adding the words ‘If I survive taking messages to and fro during the next battle.’

  “There is something you can do for me.” Her voice wavered.

  “Anything, within my power.”

  “Send Dalrymple’s body here for a decent burial. I-I cannot bear to think of him lying forever in a mud-sodden foreign land.”

  He clasped both of her hands. “I am sorry. It is impossible. Don’t you know most English warriors are buried where they fall? By now, the majority of those who perished will already be underground.”

  Helen squared her shoulders like one who had assumed a heavy burden. Her dignity touched his heart as little else could have done. He sighed. Only seventeen years old when they first met, her tranquil nature coupled with her beauty and intelligence won his love.

  Fletcher entered the salon with several footmen who carried trays of food.

  “Excuse me, my lord, I must – must attend to my sister.”

  A footman closed the door behind her. Langley cleared his throat before he addressed the servants. “I am sorry to tell you that Major Dalrymple forfeited his life during a recent battle.”

  * * * *

  Helen paused on the landing. A French lancer had cheated her of love. Her happy future now dead, her husband’s mutilated body buried in the mud in an alien land. A howl rose in her throat. She choked it back. All the tears in the world would not return Dalrymple. How could she bear it?

  “A glass of brandy for the shock, madam,” Fletcher suggested sympathetically.

  Startled, for she had not heard him come out of the salon, she shook her head. For the first time she understood why her mother drank to excess.

  “No thank you,” she whispered, although it would be easy to down several glasses of brandy to numb her pain.

  From upstairs the sound of a woman crying filtered down. Georgianne! Her sister would need her if Cousin Tarrant’s leg was amputated.

  Tears filled her eyes. According to Langley, her own husband had been fatally wounded. How could he be certain Dalrymple died immediately? Helen hoped he had. She could not bear the idea of him lying in agony in heavy rain and mud without a word of consolation before he died.

  How long had she been standing at the foot of the stairs her mind tortured by her thoughts? Each step an effort, she made her way to the second floor. Georgianne hurtled along the corridor. Tears cascaded from her swollen eyes. Helen reached out to stop her headlong flight. Her sister struggled for a moment. “Georgianne?”

  “Tarrant’s poor leg. Doctor Longspring says the shin bone is shattered. His leg must be amputated below the knee. I cannot bear it.”

  “You must, for his sake.”

  Georgianne shook uncontrollably. Helen gripped her upper arms and held her firm.

  “How can you be so composed?” The words burst from between Georgianne’s lips. “Have you no sensibilities? Can you not imagine how much I am suffering?” She wrenched herself away from Helen’s clutch.

  “Think of Tarrant, not of yourself.”

  “I am. I would prefer to have my leg cut off to spare him pain.”

  How well she understood. She would prefer her own death to Dalrymple’s. She slipped her arm around Georgianne’s waist and shepherded her into her bedroom. “Wash your face, Georgie, and tidy your hair. When it is over you must not allow Cousin Tarrant to see how distressed you are.”

  She walked toward the door. “Where are you going?” Georgianne demanded.

  Helen hesitated. She took a deep breath, in order to calm her shaking hands. If she told Georgianne that Dalrymple was dead, her sister’s sympathy would open the floodgates of uncontrollable grief. She could not bear inaction, particularly at this time. Either she could stay here to mourn or she could serve the living and ease the dying. “I am returning to my house to help those in need.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  18th June, 1815

  Sister Imelda walked toward Helen between two rows of men lying on pallets spread on the carpet of the salon. “My dear child, it is past midnight. You should be in bed.”

  Helen shook her head. She gestured to the soldiers with both hands. “I could not sleep, so I prefer to make myself useful.”

  The nun’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Helen looked away from her. “Is there more to say other than, your patients need me?”

  “Not if you don’t wish to confide in me. Please talk to the men, give them rum to diminish their pain, and write letters to their loved ones.”

  For as long as she lived, Helen would never forget the sound of relentless rain lashing the windows, mingled with the groans and sobs of men in agony. The pathos of soldiers, grateful to her for listening to them, for her gentle touch and soft words, brought tears to her eyes. She wished she could do more to ease the suffering of those who would either die in the night or be crippled. Helen did not know who touched her heart most—youngsters who wanted their mothers, married men fearful for their wives and children, or veterans with skin tanned like leather, who endured torment in silence. Regardless of rank or fortune, all of them were bound by agony, and her own anguish connected her to them.

  In every pair of pain-driven eyes, she imagined Dalrymple’s at the moment of death when he lay mortally wounded in glutinous mud. No matter how often she told herself he most probably died before he reached the ground, she could not dismiss the image which tore at her heartstrings.

  At long last, daylight arrived but rain continued to sheet down from a grim sky. She pushed her sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead. June should be a month of sunshine with sweetly perfumed flowers. She wanted to be a carefree child playing with Georgianne at Whitley Manor, her parents’ home.

  While she held a mug of rum to a young subaltern’s mouth, she remembered Georgianne’s declaration that she would never marry a soldier for fear he would be maimed or killed in battle. In spite of those words Georgianne tied the matrimonial knot with Cousin Tarrant and had paid the price for it. Yet she envied Georgianne because Tarrant lived. Her hand wobbled. Some rum spilled from the mug down the subaltern’s neck. “I am sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologise for, madam. I’m not a sight for a lady’s eyes. I can’t imagine what Papa would say if he could see me now. He always insisted on his sons being clean and tidy.” He made an obvious attempt to be light-hearted despite the fear revealed in his eyes.

  Helen looked down at the youngster whose right hand had been amputated. “I am sure he would
be proud of you. King George commands and you obeyed.” Her throat choked with emotion. She helped him to finish the rest of the rum. When she stood, her body ached as much with grief as fatigue.

  Halos of candlelight dazzled her eyes. She blinked. After several deep breaths, she poured more rum for another helpless soldier.

  Sister Imelda tapped her arm. “Enough, child. Helen opened her mouth to protest. The nun sighed before she continued. “I fear the number of wounded will double or quadruple tomorrow. If you wish to help them, you must go home to sleep.”

  Exhausted, Helen tottered from the room, barely able to keep her balance. Her tired brain told her she should take the nun’s advice, and also find out how Cousin Tarrant fared. Yet she dreaded Georgianne’s sympathy for she did not want to converse about Dalrymple’s death.

  “Ah,” Sister Imelda said, “here is Thomas. He will escort you home. Where is your cloak?”

  “Should I fetch the carriage, madam?” Thomas asked.

  “No, it is not far to my cousin’s house.”

  Bundled up in her cloak, the hood pulled over her head, ribbons fastened beneath her chin, Helen made her way through quiet streets, head bowed against the onslaught of the rain. What time was it? But what did time matter now that she would live bereft of Dalrymple? Yet suppose, only suppose Langley was mistaken and her husband lived. Even now, perhaps he waited for her. No, she must not allow her weary brain to deceive her. Ah, they had reached the house. She glanced at the footman who had draped a blanket around his shoulders in an attempt to ward off the worst of the rain. “Thomas, I shall tell Fletcher to see to your needs. Dry clothes and food, I think, and some rest before you return to my house. Thank you for all you have done.”

  “If I may say so, madam, helping those poor bas—beg your pardon—those poor men, made me feel guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “I should have taken the king’s shilling and fought the French.”