Carola Dunn (13 page)

At that she smiled. “Good. Madame’s absence has inspired Henriette to attempt a ‘rosbif à l’anglaise.’ Since she obtained the receipt from a neighbour who has a Yorkshireman billeted on her, I daresay there will be Yorkshire pudding as well.”

“I shouldn’t miss it for the world,” he promised.

He found it surprisingly difficult to hire a decent mount. The Daventrys and Madame Vilvoorde were not the only ones to have decided that morning that discretion was the better part of valour. Both carriage and riding horses were in short supply. He had to pay an outrageous price, in advance, putting it down to Mr Rothschild’s account.

He rode as far as Waterloo, but most traffic was heading in the same direction and he learned nothing of the battle. Recalling his promise to Fanny, he turned back. He’d come out again later, for the long summer evening would be light for hours yet.

At dinner, Henriette’s Yorkshire pudding caused a subdued merriment, for she had altered the proportions of the ingredients to turn it into a soufflé. The roast beef was excellent, however, and Felix set out again well fortified. He was beginning to feel the effects of missing a night’s sleep, and Fanny declared her intention of retiring at once.

He had kept the hired horse so he quickly left the town behind. About half way to Waterloo, he met a string of emptied provision wagons returning to Brussels. They carried wounded soldiers.

Lightly or badly hurt, they were all neatly bandaged. The earliest casualties had the best of care, before the surgeons were too overwhelmed to do more than save what lives they could. Among the Dutch-Belgian lads, some moaning for water, some sitting in stolid silence, Felix saw the funereal black uniforms of a few Brunswickers, little more than boys themselves. Here and there Highland plaids and the green jackets of Riflemen stood out.

One of the Scots called out to him, “Ye’ll no hae a wee dram aboot ye, sir?”

Apologizing for not having had the forethought to bring a pocket flask with him, Felix asked for news. The man, whose splinted leg seemed not to abate his cheerfulness a jot, knew nothing but his own small part in the fighting. Nor did any of his companions who were capable of speaking.

Felix rode on, unable to force his eyes from the wounded. This was the side of war Fanny knew, had lived with all her life. No wonder she flared up at talk of glory.

And then the evening sun’s golden rays picked out a familiar dark blue coat with scarlet facings. Dark stains surrounded a dozen rents in the fabric. No one wore it; it had been draped across a still figure so enveloped in bandages that only the face was visible.

The face, white as the bandages, was Fanny’s brother’s.

Without a second thought, Felix abandoned his quest for news, turned his horse’s head back towards Brussels and urged the beast to a gallop.

Bursting into the parlour, he startled Moses Solomon to his feet.

“Where’s Miss Ingram?”

“S-sleeping, my lord.”

“Don’t go out. She may need you.” He took the stairs two at a time but tapped gently at Fanny’s chamber door, not wishing to rouse Anita. No response. He knocked a little louder and called softly, “Miss Ingram!”

A moment later she opened the door, hair tousled, feet bare beneath a cambric nightgown, scarcely half awake. “Roworth! What is it?” In sleepy brown eyes the beginnings of alarm dawned. “Frank?”

“Wounded. I don’t know how badly.” He reached out as the blood drained from her face.

She gripped his hand tight for a moment. “I’ll get dressed at once.”

“The cart won’t arrive for another hour or so. They’ve put up hospital tents by the gates, but I thought you’d want him here.”

“Yes, oh yes! How could I leave him to strangers?”

“I’ll bring him to you directly.”

Lady Fitzroy would lend the curricle, but it was the wrong vehicle to transport an unconscious man. The Richmonds’ had several carriages. Leaving Fanny to her preparations, he rode to the Rue de la Blanchisserie.

He was ushered into the drawing room where the family was gathered. Georgiana jumped up and came to greet him, took one look at his face, and faltered, “Not March? George?”

“No, a friend of mine. Duke, may I borrow a carriage? Just to carry him home from the city gate.”

“The barouche,” said the duchess calmly. “Sit down, Roworth, while it is brought round. Have you news? The guns ceased a few minutes ago.”

He had not noticed the end of the bombardment. “I know nothing,” he said, “but that the Highlanders, the Rifles, and the Duke of Brunswick reinforced the Dutch-Belgians early.”

“Lots of others came up later,” said Lord William eagerly, “one after another to the rescue. The Guards, for one. The cavalry had not arrived, though, when we left.”

“They had a long way to go,” his father pointed out, almost as enthusiastic. “We held off the Frenchies, Roworth.”

“We had to leave just as Wellington counter-attacked.” William pulled a face at his mother, who had no doubt insisted upon an early return. “I heard the Duke of Brunswick was hit rallying his men. Some of them ran away, with the Dutch-Belgians.”

Lady Jane brought Felix a glass of wine. He sipped it, impatiently listening to their talk, until the butler came in to say the carriage was at the door. Gulping down the rest of the wine, he thanked them and hurried off.

The Richmonds’ coachman drove him through the dark, tensely quiet streets to the gate. As they reached it, he heard a commotion beyond the ramparts and a moment later a disordered troop of uniformed horsemen galloped through, shouting in French and Flemish.

“All is lost! The French are here!”

They raced on, hooves ringing on the pavement, cries echoing from the walls. Behind them rattled a stampeding rabble of carts, mingled with stragglers from the troop, panic on every face.

Felix jumped down and dodged through the chaotic mass that filled the roadway. The wagons bearing the wounded were just outside the ramparts, blocked from entering by the crush of vehicles.

Fanny counted on him. With grim determination, Felix seized a bridle here, a whip there, calmed horses, struck drivers, and cleared the way.

An orderly from the hospital tent helped him carry Frank to the barouche. The captain groaned once but didn’t open his eyes. His cheeks were sunken, his forehead wet with sweat, and he constantly licked his lips with a dry tongue. Felix had brought a bottle of water. As soon as he was settled in the carriage, supporting the wounded man, he raised his head and held the flask to his mouth.

Frank swallowed, greedily but painfully. The barouche set off through streets now alive with townsfolk and English visitors wailing that the French were coming.

Felix wondered if the moment had come to send Moses to London with a report of defeat--but he had seen only Belgians fleeing. He recalled Fanny’s description of them as farm lads, fresh from the plough. And Fitzroy had said Wellington expected to be driven back from Quatre Bras to make a stand at Waterloo. No, he’d wait till morning at least to send young Solomon.

When he carried Frank into the house, he was glad to find that Mrs Prynne, the major’s robust, energetic wife, had come to help. He had no time for more than a brief exchange of words with Fanny--heartfelt thanks on her part, a disclaimer on his--before he went out again to fetch a doctor.

He brought back a Belgian surgeon, sent him up to Frank’s chamber, and sat down on the sofa in the parlour to await news of the captain’s condition. The next thing he knew was an agonizing crick in his neck, daylight peering around the window-blinds, and Mrs Prynne standing over him.

“I’ve taken the liberty, my lord,” she announced, “of ordering your man to fill you a bath, and the servant to make breakfast. Fanny’s given me her word that she’ll eat a bite and then go to bed. I’ve to be off to my family. I’ll take Anita with me, and it seems to me between you and your man and the cook-girl and that other young fella-me-lad you ought to be able to take care of Frank.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” he responded with as much dignity as he could muster given his position, his unshaven chin, and his gummed-together eyelids. He forced himself to sit upright. “How is he?”

“He looks as if he’d been peppered by a shotgun at close range. Upwards of a score of flesh wounds, some of ‘em nasty, broken ribs, black and blue bruises you wouldn’t see on a prize-fighter. He’s lost a lot of blood, but it’s infection that’s most to be feared. Any sign of a fever and you send for a doctor right away.”

“I will indeed, ma’am. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“Fanny helped me when Prynne near lost his arm to a French sabre,” she said gruffly, and marched out.

Much restored by the bath, Felix met Fanny at the breakfast table while Moses sat with Frank. She drooped in her seat, pallid and hollow-eyed, scarcely able to lift the fork to her lips. He cut up her food as he would for Anita, and stirred plenty of sugar into her tea, coaxing her to drink the syrupy brew from the thick china cup before he supported her up the stairs.

When he opened her chamber door, she clung to his arm. “You won’t leave him alone?”

“Not for a moment.”

Though he had every intention of keeping his word, he had other responsibilities so he crossed to Frank’s chamber to ask Moses to stay with the captain. The young Jew was only too delighted to do Fanny any service within his power. Felix was shocked by Frank’s appearance. Grey-faced, his vitality gone, he seemed to have shrunk as he lay motionless beneath the incongruously gay patchwork quilt.

Calling on Lady Fitzroy, Felix found her reading a letter from her husband, written the previous evening after the battle. She was delighted to see him.

“Fitzroy has not a scratch. Would you like to read this?” she offered, then blushed and reclaimed the letter. “No, I will tell you what he says. ‘The Prussians and we have repulsed the French.’ But oh, Roworth, he and my uncle were nearly captured when trying to rally the Belgians, and the Duke of Brunswick is dead. Such a charming, solemn young man!”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Wellington was nearly captured, you say?”

“He and Fitzroy had to ride for their lives. Only think, Uncle Arthur had to jump a bank and ditch lined with Highlanders all with their bayonets at the ready. ‘Ninety-second, lie down!’ he shouted, and just cleared them. Fitzroy says that on a worse horse he might not have escaped.”

“Nor if he were a worse horseman. In general, the news is good, then.”

“Yes, except that Colonel Gordon was sent out towards Ligny to reconnoiter and found no sign of the Prussians, only French scouts. He was to go again at first light. But Uncle Arthur has every confidence in Marshal Blücher.”

“And we all have every confidence in your uncle Arthur. Are you and the baby quite comfortable, ma’am? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Assured that there was not, he took his leave.

By noon, rumours of the Prussians’ rout at Ligny had been confirmed. They had fallen back eighteen miles, to Wavre, and Wellington was said to be in full retreat towards Brussels. Everywhere people were fleeing the town, on foot if they could not beg, borrow, or steal horses or squeeze onto overfilled canal boats.

Consulting a map, Felix noted that Wavre was only ten miles from Waterloo. He sent Moses to get a couple of hours sleep, while he sat beside Frank and wrote to Rothschild that the Duke was engaged in a strategic withdrawal.

Just as he finished, the captain roused. A startled look flashed in his brown eyes as he saw who was at his side, and he said in a voice that was scarce more than a whisper, “My lord, you should not...”

“It’s as good a place as any to finish my report,” Felix told him. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Thirsty.” He paused, seeming to search deep within his torn, battered body. “And hungry, I think.”

On the dresser, Felix found a carafe of murky water. He sniffed at it and poured a glass. “Barley water, I’d say. It takes me back to nursery days.” But at Westwood barley water had always been flavoured with lemon. Probably lemons were beyond Fanny’s purse--he’d buy some next time he went out.

He helped Frank to drink, a painful process that reminded him of the dislocated shoulder he had suffered in the Pyrenees. Then he sent Trevor down to the kitchen to see what Henriette had to offer.

Frank watched him sign and seal his report. “What happened?” Breathing obviously hurt him but he was determined to speak. “I was hit...early in the game. Slender Billy had eight thousand men...and sixteen guns...and he reckoned Ney had twenty thousand...against us.”

“Your eight thousand, your sixteen guns, kept Ney busy until reinforcements arrived.” Felix told him all he knew, and was glad to have his judgment confirmed. The captain was sure Old Hookey was only moving back to keep his communications with Blücher open.

“What happened to you?” Felix asked, curiosity outweighing compassion. “Mrs Prynne said it looked like a shotgun blast, but I can’t believe you tangled with a gamekeeper.”

“Hoist with...my own petard.” He managed a wry smile. “French shot...hit one of Colonel Shrapnell’s shells...as we were loading it. Bloody lucky...only shell’s charge...low velocity.”

“So the case shot peppered you.”

Frank closed his eyes, his mouth tightening. “Killed two...of my gunners. Fanny knew them. Don’t tell...”

“I won’t.”

Trevor came back with bread and cheese for Felix and a beef broth specially prepared for the patient. Felix set the valet to feeding Frank, spoonful by spoonful, but soon decided his man’s all too evident pique was no sauce to the appetite. He took over the task himself, despite Frank’s weak protest.

Meanwhile, he sent Trevor to wake Moses Solomon. Though he was as reluctant to lose his willing help as the young man was to leave, both of them had a first duty to Mr Rothschild.

He regretted the loss still more when, soon after Moses departed, Jane Prynne brought Anita home.

“Mam says she’s sorry but there’s lots of wounded coming in and she’s needed,” the girl reported with a touch of ghoulish relish.

Fortunately, Anita was worn out and at once fell asleep on Felix’s lap in the armchair Moses had wrestled up the stairs to Frank’s chamber last night. Felix soon followed suit.