* * *
As soon as her daughter was born, the world began to glow with the soft radiance of light and colour. Delphine was exhilarated by her strange, fiercely possessive feelings towards the small, helpless infant. Her baby was perfect, with skin as soft as a rose petal, a mouth as soft and pouting as a pink rosebud and her eyes a dark midnight blue.
She looked exactly like Stephen.
Delphine felt such complete devotion, such overwhelming love that was without condition, without reserve, without demands. She named her daughter Lowenna, which Alice informed her was the Cornish for joy.
She had written to Stephen, informing him of the birth of their daughter, and sent a letter to her family. Within two weeks her mother had replied, insisting that as soon as she was fit enough to travel, she must come to London for a visit. Delphine had no objection, for she was very keen to see Aunt Celia. Since her arrival at Tamara, her aunt had written often about the progress of the charities, keeping her up to date about what was happening at the orphanage, and in one of her letters her aunt had informed her that young Maisie’s mother, Meg, was dead. Unfortunately her aunt did not give any details as to how this had come about, but it was plain that her aunt was worried about Maisie, who was coping with the loss, but only just—and most worrying was that Will Kelly was constantly hanging about, trying to lure Maisie away from the orphanage.
Delphine prayed this would not happen. She wished fervently to help Maisie and had written to her aunt offering to remove Maisie from the orphanage and bring her to Tamara, where a position would be found for her in the house.
* * *
During the months following her birth, Lowenna was embraced into the rhythm of the house. Her smile was a little ray of sunshine. She gurgled and cooed and was quite happy to submit herself to the mass adoration of everyone. A bold, fearless little thing, she walked at ten months, talking her baby talk as she staggered recklessly about the house on her sturdy little legs.
The only dampener on these happy days was the fact that, having received Stephen’s letter telling her of his intense joy on the birth of their daughter, she heard nothing else. She tried to excuse his tardiness by telling herself that communications in Spain, with regiments constantly on the move, were bound to be confusing. When sixteen months had passed and still there was no word, she was no longer able to ignore the constant, stabbing unease. She was dismayed at the depth of fear she felt for her husband, the idea of him coming to harm was intolerable.
She had had no time to get to know Stephen, and yet, as the weeks and months passed, he seemed no stranger to her at all, but someone whose image she carried in her heart, held in her imagination like a promise of something more, something better.
* * *
Never in the rest of his life was Stephen able to determine precisely what he did and where he went in the aftermath of the Battle of Badajoz on the seventh day of April. The fighting had been ferocious, the battle one of the bloodiest in the Peninsular War. The town, held by the French, was taken by the Allied troops. When dawn came, it revealed the horror of the slaughter around the curtain walls. Bodies of British soldiers were piled high and blood flowed like rivers through the trenches.
But then came slaughter of a different kind. British troops had burst out from the discipline of their firm commanders and let their emotions rule their actions, behaving with sickening savagery to the Spanish inhabitants. The town was subjected to two days of pillage, murder, rape and drunkenness—as many as four thousand Spanish civilians, mostly women and children, were massacred.
It was something that Stephen had not foreseen, therefore he had not calculated the effect that it would have on him. For it is one thing to lead soldiers into battle and fight honourably; it is quite another to see those same soldiers—well organised, brave, disciplined and obedient—turn into a pack of hounds, all military discipline gone, and attack the Spanish civilians they had been fighting to liberate. Blood was everywhere—the whole world seemed to be drowning in blood.
It appeared to him afterwards that he had escaped being killed many times over, for he had wandered, half-dazed with fatigue, through the streets of Badajoz, as musket fire and the screams of women and children echoed around him, buildings blazing on either side, without getting so much as a scratch.
Returning to camp, he sat with his head in his hands, loyal Oakley standing close beside him.
‘By the eyes of God, Oakley, things like this age a man twenty years in as many minutes. I’ve had enough. A musket ball through the head would be a kindness.’ Raising his head, he looked at Oakley. His face was hard and smeared with powder, shadows of exhaustion from what he had seen that day, his mouth twisted with bitter mockery. ‘Do you know what day it is today, Oakley? It is my daughter’s first birthday. She is one year old and I have never laid eyes on her. And now, every birthday of her life, I shall remember this day.’
From Badajoz Stephen had gone on to Salamanca and fought in the hills around Arapiles, south of Salamanca. It was here that he received an almost fatal wound to the chest. Had it not been for the care of Oakley and a local woman, he would not have survived.
The battle had been fought in choking dust and heat. The French forces could not recover and the broken remnants of their army straggled back towards the Pyrenees and France.
As a consequence of Wellington’s victory here, his army had been able to advance on Madrid for two months, but then retreated back to Portugal, where Stephen had embarked for England.
* * *
Now Stephen stood at the prow of the ship, unafraid of the dangers as the vessel pitched and rolled through the storm. He was returning to England with no sense of triumph, only the leaden sickness of mounting disillusionment.
All the years of his life, the only thing he had invested with real importance had been the army. It had always given a meaning to his life, to everything he did. Now that the war was over, he had every intention of settling down to a more sedentary existence with his wife, whose absence from his life was the main cause of his disillusionment. And his child?
He blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his fogged senses. Delphine—a young woman he had made his wife—a young woman he hadn’t had the time to get to know. A dim vision of a girl with deep-red hair glaring at him with open defiance—of that same girl gazing up at him with warm, passion-filled dark eyes after they had made love—drifted into his mind.
‘Delphine,’ he whispered in pained regret, recalling the night he had taken her in a drunken stupor. His actions that night had culminated in his whimsical, impulsive marriage to that same bewitching girl with whom he had truly shared a bed only twice. ‘My wife.’
The thought of seeing her again brought a thrill of anticipation racing through him and his heart gave a leap of excitement in his chest. He had rebuked himself many times over the way he had left her, creeping away like a thief in the night because he couldn’t bring himself to face her, to say goodbye. The feelings she evoked in him had brought bitter memories of his relationship with a callous, treacherous woman that had left painful scars, as yet unhealed. And yet when he’d looked down at Delphine’s sleeping face, her wonderful mane of deep-red hair spread out over the pillows, he’d seen something in her that was in himself and something had stirred in his hardened heart.
Seeing the Cornish coastline on the horizon, he felt suddenly uplifted, a smile lightening his intense dark features. He looked forward to the moment when he would hold his daughter for the first time. He contemplated what his homecoming would mean to Delphine. Would she welcome him home, or would she have become so independent in his absence that she would resent his return? Hoping for the former, he drew in one last deep, satisfying breath and went to find Oakley.
The sea was high and the wind loud in his ears. He was unable to hear the shouted warning given by one of the crew, warning him
of the boom that had worked its way loose from the securing ropes and was swinging about precariously. When it hit him, he experienced an explosion of white hot pain that seared inside his head.
* * *
Darkness had fallen when Delphine went upstairs to her bed. Sensing something was not quite right, she went to the window and looked out. The moon cast its light through the barren limbs of the trees, creating dark, tangled images on the ground. She eyed the shadows carefully, half-expecting some movement to startle her, and did not realise how tense she was when it did.
There were horses, two of them, and instinctively she knew that one of them carried Stephen.
Picking up her skirts, she hurried down the stairs and out into the courtyard, Mrs Crouch hurrying in her wake. One of the riders, whom she recognised as Mr Oakley, had dismounted. Her gaze went to the other rider. He sat slumped in the saddle, sagging weakly forwards; his head lolled forwards on to his chest. He looked like he had fallen asleep. Delphine was aware in that instant of a sudden pang in her breast and an unfamiliar, wild, uncontrollable beating. The suddenness of recognition made her body feel weak. It was Stephen. She ran towards him, alarmed by the sight of blood running down his face from beneath a crude dressing wrapped around his head. His eyes were closed and, beneath the black curling hair and sun-bronzed face, his skin seemed bloodless.
‘Stephen?’
When there was no response, she turned to Mr Oakley, her face similarly drained of colour. ‘What is wrong with him?’
‘He lost consciousness some miles back,’ he told her, going to his master. ‘I’m amazed he managed to stay in the saddle.’
‘But—is he ill—wounded? What?’
‘Wounded.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘I cannot say. He suffered a wound to his head caused by a heavy blow from a loose boom on the vessel bringing us back to England. He did not lose consciousness and allowed me to dress the wound—such as it is. He didn’t want a fuss.’
‘Have you ridden far?’
‘We left the ship at Plymouth.’
Delphine turned to one of the grooms, her eyes blazing urgently. ‘Go to the village for Dr Jenkinson. Have him come at once.’ Further instructions sent two of the maids running ahead to prepare the master’s chambers and have hot water and towels sent up. She was relieved when Davy came hurrying out of the house.
‘Quickly,’ she said, sick with dread. ‘Get him inside. One of the grooms will take care of the horses.’
Together Mr Oakley and Davy dragged Stephen from his horse and between them managed to carry him up to his room, where they laid him on the bed.
Delphine had recovered somewhat from the initial shock and now stood over him. Every line and curve of his face was etched indelibly on her mind: the sweep of his long lashes as they rested against his cheeks, the little creases at the corners of his mouth, the black curls flecked with silver around his temples, the silver more pronounced than she remembered. She had memorised every detail of that strong, bronzed face and she now felt that she could go on looking at it for a lifetime and never have enough of looking.
His eyes flickered open and, as if the effort sapped his strength, instantly closed again. Something in those dark-blue depths so briefly seen made her catch her breath. Once more she felt her body blaze with emotion and for once she did not care. She had so long been denied intimacy with her husband, had so determinedly kept her mind from any such feelings, that she now recklessly welcomed them.
Mr Oakley opened Stephen’s coat. His eyes remained closed, but he groaned when Mr Oakley raised him slightly and removed the coat completely.
‘How serious do you think his wound is?’ Delphine asked, not taking her eyes from her husband’s face. ‘Please tell me the truth. Do—do you think he will die?’
Mr Oakley looked at her gravely. ‘I honestly do not know the answer. I’ve known many men receive such a blow and recover without any after-effects. Your husband acquired several wounds in battle, one when his chest stopped a French bullet at Salamanca, the last battle he fought. The surgeon considered it serious at the time but mercifully, he was tenderly nursed and ultimately recovered. I fear, however, it weakened him. His request to be discharged of his duties was immediate upon his recovery.’
Delphine stared at him in disbelief. ‘He requested to be discharged of his duties?’
Sombre-faced, Mr Oakley nodded. ‘He was not recovering as quickly as he should. It was as if something was holding him back—as if he were fighting something. It wasn’t just infection of his wound. He seemed to sink deeper and deeper into what the doctor called depression.’
‘And what was your opinion, Mr Oakley? You know my husband better than anyone. If, as the doctor said, it was depression, what was the cause?’
Oakley shrugged wearily. ‘A combination of many things. Personally I think it was what he witnessed at Badajoz. It was a dreadful time for soldiers and civilians—a time for looking into one’s soul and asking what the war was all about. That, and the loss of will, was what decided him to leave the army. But in addition, Lady Fitzwaring, I believe he was missing his home and family. He could certainly have done without further injury.’
With a single-minded purpose and a tenderness she had shown no other man, Delphine tended her husband, cherishing the hope that Stephen had indeed been eager to return home to her and their child. After removing the dressing from around his head, stroking back the black, glossy curls from his brow and wiping away some of the blood, she placed a cool, wet cloth against his forehead. She sat beside the bed to await the doctor.
Delphine was seriously concerned by Stephen’s condition. He was still unconscious. Beneath the loose dressing she had applied, the wound still bled profusely. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead and over his cheeks as far as the corner of his tightly closed lips. His face was impassive, the eyelids tight closed over his dark-blue eyes. Occasionally his features tightened in a spasm of pain.
* * *
When Mrs Crouch ushered Dr Jenkinson into the room, Delphine rose to greet him. ‘Doctor Jenkinson! I am obliged to you for coming so soon. My husband requires urgent attention. He has received a blow to his head and the wound still bleeds. I am most concerned that he has not recovered consciousness.’
Doctor Jenkinson lost no time in examining the wound. ‘There’s no fracture,’ he said at length. ‘But there is a ruptured blood vessel.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I am going to cauterise the wound and seal the vein.’
‘Will it leave a scar?’
‘The wound is small despite the severity of the blow. I shall barely touch it so as not to leave too large a burn. Besides, his hair will cover it.’
Removing his coat, he rummaged in his bag and brought out some shining instruments, selecting one in particular. After wiping it carefully with a small piece of cloth on which he had poured a few drops of acrid-smelling liquid, he placed it in a small metal pot containing hot coals, which Davy had just brought in. After a moment, with a steady hand and Mr Oakley and Davy holding Stephen down, he applied the red-hot metal tip of the instrument to the wound.
Delphine stayed near as the doctor tended the wound. She closed her eyes and clenched her hands when Stephen’s body jerked, but she could not shut out his cry of pain and the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair.
‘There,’ Dr Jenkinson said, standing back to survey his handiwork, ‘the vessel is sealed. I shall apply some salve and a dressing. In a few days the wound should have healed.’ When he had bound the wound, lifting Stephen’s eyelids and feeling his pulse, he seemed to be satisfied. ‘Let him sleep,’ he advised, thrusting his arms into his coat. ‘He will need every ounce of strength when he comes round.’
Silently Delphine was thankful for the time she had spen
t at the orphanage. It was thanks to her aunt’s tuition that she was not ignorant of balms and medicinal cures and of caring for the sick or injured.
She refused the pleas of both Mrs Crouch and Mr Oakley to go to her own chambers and rest, stating resolutely, ‘I will sit with him. A room will have been prepared for you, Mr Oakley. You look exhausted. You can go to bed knowing Stephen is in safe hands.’
Seeing no opening for argument, Mr Oakley finally relented.
* * *
Left alone with her husband, Delphine stretched the covers over him and touched her hand to his fevered brow. She found her eyes irresistibly drawn to a loose black curl that shaped itself round his ear and lay softly coiled against his neck. Reaching out her hand, she touched it, feeling its softness. With a wistful sigh she sat beside the bed and remembered how it had been between them before he went away.
Despite the manner in which they had come together and the often angry and bitter words they had exchanged, they had been unable to fight what they felt for each other, which was not just desire, but lust. How could it be anything else when they barely knew each other? In fact, the length of time they had been together was less than one week. But there it was, and there was no use denying it or fighting it. Nor could she regret it. How could she ever regret what they had done? How could she regret having known, even for such a short time, the feel of Stephen’s body in union with her own, never having known what it felt like to have a fire inside her soul, never having known that such a dark, wild passion could exist? And the outcome of all that passion was the beautiful child they had created together, the child he had yet to meet.
And now he was home.
In his delirium he muttered softly, rolling his head slowly from side to side. When he grew feverish and his brow felt hot to the touch, she bathed him with cool water. When he became restless and muttered incoherently, she murmured soothingly, tenderly, stroking his brow until he calmed. Apart from these small comforts, there was little else she could do but sit and wait, praying that he would soon regain consciousness.
Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace Page 11