Kindred Hearts (50 page)

Charles was still asleep when they came in the room, Tristan first to make sure he was decently covered, as he wore only a loose nightshirt. “Poor
Liebchen
,” Liesl crooned softly as she sank into the chair Tristan placed beside the bed and took Charles’s hand. “But so well attended. You have my gratitude, Tristan.”

“He is not only my brother-in-law,” Tristan said stiffly, “he is also my very dear friend. Although were he not, I could do no less. He is by far the worst injured of those yet installed here; I must needs pay more attention to him.”

She waved one hand dismissively. “Of course you would, but the others matter not to me, and he does.”

Charles opened his eyes, stared at the canopy above him a moment, then turned his head, frowning. “Mama?” he asked in puzzlement.

“Oh, he knows me! Yes, my love, my
Liebling
, your mama is here for you.”

Mama
? Tristan blinked. “You’re his
mother
?” he said in confusion. “I thought Lady Chilson was dead!”

“Oh, no. Of course, how should you know? You would have been a little boy at the time.” Liesl was serene in her dismissal of his shock. “I shall explain all to you later. It is very bad of Charlotte to not tell you, but that is Charlotte all over. Charles, my love, how are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Charles said, his voice rasping. Tristan immediately fetched a glass of heavily watered wine and brought it to him, raising him carefully with an arm under his shoulders. Charles drank, then smiled his thanks to Tris. “And confused. What are you doing here, Mama?”

“I have come to nurse you,” she said, surprised. “Of course. I had the feeling something was wrong and when I heard of the battle here I knew that was it. So Antonio and I came from Naples
macht schnell
, or maybe
tout de suite
, since we are in Brussels, and here we are.” She shrugged. “Naples was boring and noisy and dirty, anyway, so it is no great loss. And my beloved Tristan is busy with other sick men and so I will help him. And Antonio.”

“‘Other sick men’?” Charles echoed, frowning at Tristan.

He shrugged. “A few injured left in my care. I helped out with the wounded as they were brought into the city.”

“Did you set my leg?”

“Yes. Are you in pain?” Tris asked anxiously.

“A bit, but that’s to be expected. I think you said Patch fell on me?” He raised a hand and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “And my shoulder hurts. Was I shot?”

“Yes, but the bullet went through…. Oh, my dear lady, I do apologize,” Tristan said penitently. “I should not speak of such things in a lady’s presence.”

The count laughed heartily. Liesl sniffed. “Nonsense,” she said, “I know all about bullets, and it is quite good that the bullet went through him, otherwise there would be digging in the flesh with knives, and concern about infections, and things like that. I have done that, and it is not at all pleasant.”

Tristan blinked. The count laughed again, then said, “My Liesl was in Naples when the French came, oh, quite twenty years ago now. When she says she will nurse Charles, you may be assured there is no one more capable of it. Now you, my friend, look as if you could use some rest. Leave Charles to us—you go and sleep for a day or so.”

Tristan looked at Charles, who regarded him with a long, slow look, then said, “You look like hell, Tris. Go sleep.”

He returned the look, then gave Charles quick grin and a nod. “I will if you will,” he said.

“Agreed.” Charles lay back on the pillows and smiled up at his mother. “Hullo, Mama,” he said softly.

“Hello, my
Liebling
,” she replied, her voice gentle.

Tristan looked at them, and at the calm, confident expression on the count’s face, then bowed politely and went to find a bed.

“It is
very simple,” Liesl said.

They had finished supper; the table had been cleared and port brought, but with it being only the three of them, Liesl had refused to withdraw and accepted a small glass of port herself. “Eustace and I were in Paris in the summer of 1795; he was there with the British embassage during one of their negotiations. Believe it or not, Eustace was quite an effective speaker in his youth. Charles and Charlotte were, I believe, about eight years of age at the time, Daniel about sixteen. I met Antonio there.” She reached across the corner of the table to clasp her husband’s hand. “And fell madly in love.”

“Ah, my darling girl,” Antonio said softly. “You make it sound as if it were your fault. She behaved with utmost honor,” he told Tristan, “and would have returned to England with her husband, but that he discovered that we had met twice—in all innocence!—and was infuriated. He cast her off, divorced her in the French civil system, and refused to permit her to see her children again.” His voice was low and angry. “He cast off the most loving and loyal woman he would ever know and left his children motherless. He let the world think that she had died, and for her protection, her friends who knew the truth allowed him. But he could not keep her from writing to her children; first to a friend who smuggled the letters to them, and later, when they were older, directly to them. By then, he was too deep in the drink to care any longer. Charlotte’s letters—and Charles’s, when he found time to write—have been Liesl’s greatest joy and comfort over the years.”

“Not quite,” Liesl said, smiling at him. Antonio raised her hand to his lips.

“Still, I am grateful for Chilson’s foolishness, because his loss is my gain—and
my
greatest joy and comfort.”

“Lottie never told me you were alive.” Tristan thought a moment. “Of course, I think I just assumed you were dead and never questioned it. She always referred to you as ‘Liesl’ and I assumed you were a cousin or some distant connection. It never occurred to me to question it.”

“Indeed, and why should you?” Liesl said practically. “Now. We will stay this evening in Charles’s room and you will sleep in the other room, if you would be so kind, and I will nurse Charles and you will rest tonight. Tomorrow Antonio will arrange for an hotel for us, and we will set up a schedule of nursing until Charlotte arrives….”

“Charlotte?” Tristan blinked.

“Yes, Charlotte. Ellen is perfectly capable of taking care of the children, with the help of the nursemaid and wet-nurse, and Charlotte is perfectly healthy, so there is no reason why she should not be here with her husband. Brussels is a disaster, but I do not believe the gloomy-guts who insist there will be plague here; the Bruxellois are a tidy people and will have these bodies cleaned up quickly. Antonio will advise them.”

Antonio just smiled at his wife.

“I believe you are quite mad,” Tristan said to his new-found mother-in-law, “but I quite like you.”

“Good,” Liesl said. “I am quite prepared to like you as well.”

By the
time Charlotte arrived a week later, Liesl’s prediction had come true and Brussels was beginning to return to its normal state. Out near the battleground the situation was still bad, with the dead in great piles; along with the other doctors and surgeons in residence around the city, Tristan had begun riding out on a daily basis to find and treat those still alive among the dead. As the days rolled on, however, there were fewer of the injured to find, as those succumbed to their wounds and to exposure on the killing fields. The shock and horror Tristan had experienced on his first foray to the battleground had subsided to a grim determination to do what he could, as little as it was. Like the moment he saw Charles wounded and knew he had to swallow his personal fears and despair, and focus only on what he needed to do, out on the battlefield, he closed his eyes against the carnage and focused only on what he could do for those yet living, and, later, on helping to lay the dead in the mass graves dug for them.

He had just returned from the latter task and was taking a much-needed bath when he heard voices downstairs. He was bathing in the room once “assigned” to Charles; the count and countess had repaired to a hotel for their residence, but Charles was still installed in Tristan’s bed and Tris did not want to disturb him. Rising from the bath, he dried himself off and dressed quickly in fresh clothing before checking quickly on the sleeping Charles, and then heading downstairs.

Liesl was holding court in his drawing room; he noticed Charlotte at once and went across to her, his hands outstretched. “Lottie,” he said gratefully, drawing her into a hug. “You look well.”

“You,” she said, drawing back and regarding him thoughtfully, “look dreadful. Have you actually slept at all these last weeks?”

“Occasionally,” he said with a laugh.

“See who I have brought with me,” she said, and she pushed his shoulder gently to turn him.

He blinked in disbelief and Dr. Crosby laughed. “Surprised to see me, Northwood?”

“I stopped in London on my way to Dover,” Charlotte said, “and asked Dr. Crosby and Dr. MacQuarrie to join us here. You had expressed concern that you were over your head with trying to treat Charles as well as manage all the other things you have on your plate.”

“Mixing metaphors, my love,” Tristan murmured, then he nodded curtly at Crosby.

“Both of us would have been a bit much,” Crosby said, “so we drew straws. I won. It’s no hardship to be out of London in June.”

“Certainly,” Tristan said stiffly. “I suppose you’d like to see him immediately, to confirm that I am just as ham-handed as you expect, and have him removed to some place where he can get more effective care?”

Crosby blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tristan, don’t be an ass,” Lottie said. “Dr. Crosby had nothing but good things to say about you on the journey.”

“I’m sure he was just being polite,” Tristan said coolly.

“Which you are not,” his wife said. “Come and sit down and have some tea, and
try
to be civil, will you? The children are fine, the wet-nurse you got for Caroline is excellent, and Ellen is delighted to play nanny for a few weeks, not that you’ve asked. How is Charles?”

“Sleeping,” Tristan said. “He will insist on getting up for a short time every morning and trying to exercise his limbs; he says he’s seen more men crippled by wasted muscles than by broken bones. It does not seem to hurt him, but he is usually exhausted after an hour and will sleep until suppertime.”

“He’s right; as long as he is not putting weight on the broken bone but is only exercising the muscles around it, he should do himself no harm,” Crosby said. “Some surgeons believe the patient should be kept immobile, but I agree with Mountjoy.”

Tristan closed his eyes a moment, then said with hard-won calm, “Yes, Charles is a very sensible man.”

“I have always thought so,” Liesl said.

“I looked in on him just before I came down,” Tristan said, “and he was asleep. If you would give me your direction, Doctor, I will be happy to send ’round for you when he wakes.”

“Stop bristling, hedgehog,” Crosby said. “I know I am not your favorite person….”

“Nor I yours, I’m sure,” Tristan said, “but it is not me you are visiting, so that makes no difference. My only concern is Charles’s health. I am grateful you condescended to make the trip.”

“I like Brussels, so it’s no hardship. And I like Mountjoy.” Crosby took his card-case out and withdrew a card and pencil. Writing on the back, he said, “I’m staying with friends in the rue Bologne. It’s only a few streets over. I’ll drop by this evening if that’s acceptable?”

“You aren’t leaving already? Tristan!” Liesl was dismayed.

Crosby laughed. “No need to fret, Countess. I hadn’t planned to stay more than a moment; my baggage is still in the coach, and I really do need to get settled before I engage in any more medical activity.”

“Then you must come for supper,” Charlotte said, holding out her hand.

He bowed over it, said his goodbyes to Liesl and the count, and then turned. “Northwood—walk me out?”

Reluctantly, Tristan nodded and followed him into the hall. On the steps, Crosby turned and said, “I know you hate me for dashing your hopes, but I wasn’t just considering your future patients’ welfare, and if you hadn’t gone haring off to the country the next day, I would have called ’round to explain my decision. I know I’m a bit brusque, but you’re equally sensitive, and that’s part of my concern.”

“It’s immaterial,” Tristan said curtly. “I’ve no need to rehash the conversation.”

“Well, I do, so shut your gob,” Crosby said just as curtly. “You’ve got a damn haughty way about you, Northwood, which I suppose is natural given your ancestry and upbringing, but I’ve no patience with histrionics.”

“Histrio—”

“Shut up and listen to me, damn it. You’ve the potential to be a damn fine physician
and
one with surgical skills as well, which is rare, and never mind the ballocksed-up rules that say you can’t be both, though I have found that most men are one or the other. Mountjoy, for example. He’s dedicated to medicine, but accepts his limitations, and he does have them, despite what your hero worship might tell you. You are limited only by your past poor decisions. It grieves me, because you have the soul of a surgeon; there aren’t many who can step back from their emotions and treat the injury for what it is. Damn fewer who can look at the patient and treat him as well. I’ve seen it in the cases you’ve handled in the hospital, listening to the patient and figuring out not only how he was hurt but how he was likely to be hurt again, and coming up with ways to change that. That bricklayer with the cough and the sprained wrist—not many would have realized the cough was from the brick dust and the sprain from the way he was working, and sent him to MacQuarrie’s group to deal with the cough when they were finished with the sprain. That took brains, and heart. You’ve got them.

“I got a note from the Duke of Wellington a fortnight ago. You had mentioned in passing that you had studied under me in London. He wanted to thank me for taking you on as a student, because it had made an enormous difference in the lives of the wounded here.” He paused, swallowed, and went on, his voice a shade raspy. “To hear that a student has made a difference is one of the greatest joys of teaching. I have never regretted taking you on as a student. My only regret is that you hadn’t discovered what it is you wanted to do ten years ago, before the drink had ruined your nerves.”

Tristan’s eyes were stinging; he stared up at the sky until they cleared, and said quietly, “I wish I had, too. Now….” He spread his hands, staring at them. They seemed steady enough, but he knew that Crosby had been right. They shook when tense, and that—
that
—was all his fault.

“Now you take a different tack.” Crosby studied him. “You come back to London, finish your studies, get additional training. Medicine’s not like surgery; you need education for medicine, instead of just apprenticing as a surgeon, so it’s going to take you longer than you might have expected at the outset. You’ve got your Cambridge degree, though; I’ll wager you can do the medical program in a couple of years. It’ll take Mountjoy a year or two longer, since he hasn’t the degree. It’s supposed to be five years, but that’s ballocks. You both need to apply at St. Joseph’s as students, but that’s a formality; MacQuarrie and I are on the board there. Mountjoy said once he’d hoped to go into practice with you as his partner, after you both get your licenses. MacQuarrie and I think that’s a splendid idea, based on your skills, your interests, and your characters. You’ve the imagination; Mountjoy has the steadiness. Between you, you’ll do well. Now. Go back in there and apologize to your wife for being a boor, and I’ll be by for supper.”

“Eight o’clock,” Tristan said dazedly.

“I’ll come by at seven and see to Mountjoy first. Good day to you, sir!”

“Good day.”

Tristan watched him climb back into the coach and give the driver the signal to start. A gloved hand flapped at him once, then the coach rattled around the corner and was gone. He stared after it a moment, then went back in to apologize to Lottie.

Charles
lay still, gazing up at the canopy overhead. It was robin’s egg blue, which should have made it feminine, but the folds of fabric were crisp and the matching bed-curtains tied back in almost military order. He knew them well, down to the individual folds—too well. And he was bloody sick of them. Sick of them, and of the silk-papered walls and the Brussels-scented breeze that came in the window, and the window itself, and the traction machine that held his leg up.

It had been nearly three weeks since his injury, and he was desperate to escape, both the room and the endless pain in his leg—to walk out of this bloody room on his own two feet, to ride again, to feel the sun on his face. The short walks around the room and up and down the upstairs corridor he’d taken with the aid of a pair of crutches that made his gait awkward and ungainly. But his leg still couldn’t take his weight. He knew well enough it might never take his weight again, but he was bound and determined to avoid that fate. He was
going
to walk again, and he was
going
to ride again, and by
God
, he was going to make love with Tristan again.

Tristan.

Again, the snort, this time even less amused. Tristan, who worked carefully with him, always pleasant, always patient, always encouraging, always helpful. Always…
careful
. Careful not to hurt him, careful to only touch him in ways that wouldn’t distract him from whatever torture he was putting himself through, careful not to let Charles’s increasingly bad humor upset him. It did upset him; Charles could see it when he snapped at Tris and Tris’s mouth would go flat a moment, only to curve back up again in a patient, understanding smile. He wanted to
slap
that smile off Tristan’s face. He wanted to hurt Tris, and that shocked him.