Love Me Again (35 page)

Sighing, Robert glanced over at Wellington, who at that moment was in a private conversation with the Prince of Orange. It was obvious to him that another dispatch had just been received. They had been coming in at a steady stream for days. “Yes, love, I fear ’tis true, Quatre Bras has fallen. We will ride to Waterloo tonight. Wellington needs to set the defense lines.”

“My God!” Quatre Bras was only twenty miles from them! And tomorrow he would be in Waterloo, a mere ten miles distance. Napoleon was practically walking down the streets of the city.

She glanced uneasily at the urbane commander-in-chief. “Why is he wasting his time here, for heaven's sake?”

“It is his way of assuring everyone that he is in control and there is nothing to worry about. After Quatre Bras and Ligny it is imperative to keep a sense of order.”

Christina looked up at her husband and said urgently, “Robert, please be careful!” Already the casualties were flooding the hospitals of Brussels and outlying villages.

Smiling, he leaned down and kissed her nose. “Not to worry, love. I've come through just fine so far, beside that man. If I can trust him with my life, you can too.” But she didn't look convinced. Then he offered her a promise he knew he might not be able to keep, however, if it helped to ease her anxiety than it couldn't hurt. “I will try to send a courier during the day to let you know what is happening. Does that satisfy you?”

Giving a strained smile, she nodded. “Yes, please, if you can.”

When the waltz came to an end, dinner was announced and the crowd started to shift toward the dining room.

The next couple of hours were filled with a forced gaiety that was beginning to strain even the most hardy souls. Everyone watched uneasily as one by one many of the officers began to drift off, leaving many empty chairs as a grim reminder of what was before them. When Wellington gave a slight nod to the Prince of Orange and that young man also left, the laughter about the table began to die an uneasy death. It was almost a relief when dinner was over and the Duchess of Richmond rose.

It was at this time that Wellington gave his compliments to his hostess, and as he offered the room in general a few courteous comments, the rest of his officers quietly made their farewells to family. Christina clung to Robert for as long as she could before he stepped back and smiled down on her. Confidently, he assured her, “I will see you soon.”

“You had better,” she insisted with a mock scowl as she straightened his sash. Giving her a final kiss, he moved away and into the tide of men heading toward the doors.

Seeing Sergei leaning negligently against a column, Robert veered off to speak with him. For the first time he was actually glad of Massallon's annoying presence. Without a greeting, he asked, “I know how much you want to be at your friend's back tomorrow, but...” he looked hard into Sergei's cautious gaze. “If Napoleon breaks us you have to get her out of here. Already most of Brussels is evacuating.” He looked away self-consciously. “I know we have never been friends, but I beg of you, stay with Christina.”

Sergei hated being left behind, but he knew better than any the condition of the troops and their chances tomorrow. Everyday since coming to Brussels he had ridden through the Austrian camps searching for Varek with no luck. Sighing, he knew he wouldn't leave Christina for he couldn't trust her with the good sense to flee if Brussels fell; she would never leave without knowing the welfare of Varek and Robert and himself.

The least he could do is ease Robert's worries about Christina's safety. Firmly, he assured him, “I swear I will protect her with my life. I'll make sure she doesn't do anything foolish, even it I have to gag and truss her. You'll have enough to worry about.” Pushing himself upright, he offered his hand. “God go with you, Basingstoke.”

Robert didn't even hesitate when he took Sergei's hand. It was probably the first time they had shaken hands in years. “I must admit that I am vastly relieved to know that if anything happens to me, you will see her safely home.”

The two adversaries stared into each other's eyes in perfect understanding. Without another word, Robert spun about on his heel and was gone.

All too soon the remaining guests were looking at each other with grim-faced dread. An uneasy silence, overlaid with low murmurs of fear, had fallen on the festive hall. Christina moved to Sergei's side looking about the room thinking it was all so shallow and superficial. And outside the windows they could hear the moans and cries of the wounded as they poured into the besieged city.

Just then the clock struck the midnight hour.

It was now June 18ñ-a day none of them would ever forget.

“My God, Laure, look at it!”

Laure came to stand beside Christina and Sergei on the terrace. The horizon to the south was black with the heavy smoke of artillery and cannon. That added with the dark clouds still hanging over from yesterday's storm, it was an eerie sight to behold. Even at the distance that separated them from the battlefield, the noise rumbled like thunder, and it was endless. The air was humid, sticky and heavy with the scent of spent gunpowder. She rubbed her cheek, and noticed a sooty moisture staining her fingertips.

Christina glanced at Sergei's profile and saw the anger there. She knew how much he wanted to be at Varek's side, yet she couldn't feel guilty for playing on his sense of duty toward her. She already had two of her men in that hell. She needed Sergei here with her.

So far there had been no couriers from Robert, but already the wounded were pouring to every available hospital and any other building made available to the medical corps. There were so many, and they had only been fighting for four hours.

Looking at the pall of smoke, she knew that somewhere out there was Varek. She knew that Robert would be at Wellington's side, but she had no idea where her love was.

When Laure went back inside to sit down, Christina asked softly, “Do you know where he is?”

His jaw clenched with his own frustration, Sergei shook his head. “All I know is that he was with the emperor at the Allies headquarters in Heilbrönn. But that was two weeks ago.” His voice was stiff with anger.

“Please don't be angry with me, Sergei. It is bad enough that I have Varek and Robert to worry about. I couldn't have stood it if you were out there too.”

Sergei glanced down at her with frowning bewilderment. “I am not angry with you, Christina. If I am angry at anyone it is that monster, Napoleon. God, when I think of how many men's lives will be sacrificed today, how many lives we've lost over the years, it makes me want to retch. I hope when they catch the bastard they execute him this time.”

She heartily agreed, though the Allies would never commit regicide, even to rid themselves of such a madman as Napoleon.

Again she glanced off toward the scene of carnage and saw that the heavy pall seemed even denser. “How can they even see what they are doing?” she wondered aloud.

“They can't. Half the time they are on top of each other before they know it. You can't see more than a foot or two before you. And the battle is being fought in fields where the rye is higher than the men.” And with last night's storm, they were sloughing through mud. More than half the troops were wet, exhausted from the grueling march of the past days, and close to starvation as they had been on quarter rations for the same amount of time. Sergei had already walked among the wounded on the streets and heard the horror stories of how many of the regiments were so exhausted they were sleeping at their positions and being picked off by snipers, too defeated to even care.

How insane men were, Christina brooded as she shook her head in horrified disbelief. If women ruled the world, this would not be happening. She didn't know what would be happening, but people wouldn't be brutally killing each over possession of land and honor. Women wouldn't blindly follow other women into death, it was too ridiculous to even contemplate. What was it with men and their dueling and their boxing and their hunting and their, it was all simply so demented.

She heard Laure call to her, “Both of you come in here and eat something. Neither of you have had a bite all day.”

Just the thought of food made her stomach churn. It would probably taste of smoke and gunpowder.

Instead, she stood at Sergei's side, listening to the rumbling that never stopped, and watched the sky becoming darker and darker as the sun began to wane. “How much more can those men take?” she muttered.

There was a flurry of movement in the salon behind them, and hoping it was a courier from Robert, she hurried into the room. However, it was only one of the princess's footmen looking weary and stained with soot and sweat. Laure turned a pale face toward them as Christina hurried to her side.

“La Haye Sainte has fallen to Ney!” she whispered, shocked into a crippling sense of terror.

Christina turned to Sergei. “That is the center of Wellington's defenses, isn't it?”

Sergei tersely demanded of the footmen, “Have they broken the line?”

The man shook his head. “I couldn't really tell. Can't see anything down there. I heard La Haye had fallen and I came here right away.” Evacuation was now a reality to be considered.

Damn fool,
Sergei thought in disgust, coming here and frightening the women for what could be nothing at all. The Anglo-Allied armies under Wellington were deployed strategically between three large farmhouses. La Haye Sainte was the center of the triangle and it was true that it was the most important stand of defense. Wellington had placed his King's German Legion there, for they were his stoutest regiment and he trusted them implicitly. That it had fallen was a blow. But Wellington was a master tactician who planned for such a situation as this, and worse.

Suddenly there was a growing roar outside, which built to a cacophony of shouting and cheering in the streets, muskets fired into the air. After staring at each other in shock, the four of them, as a group, rushed out into the street. The people flowing about them were ecstatic, hysterical in their revelry.

Sergei grabbed hold of a filthy soldier's arm. “What is it?” he shouted over the din.

“It's the Prussians. They're here! We've routed Boney and sent the bastard fleeing!”

Sergei spun around and grinned at Christina, who was grinning back. With a shout she launched herself into his arms. “It's over! Thank God, it's over!”

But was it? She still had to find Varek and Robert, and in the jubilant crush and endless stream of people and carts flowing through the streets like a steady flow of lava, it seemed an impossibility. Already she was searching every face as she was jostled along in the on-flowing tide. When Sergei grabbed hold of her and pulled back into the Metternich house, she was trembling with fear.

Hours later she was still waiting, and it was driving her insane. Pacing by Sergei's chair, where he was sprawled watching her with a moody wariness, she again demanded that he take her to Waterloo.

And he replied, just as he had the other countless times, “We will stay right here until we hear otherwise. I am not about to drive you around at night through a war-torn countryside where there will still be snipers, and God knows what.” He could see she was slowly starting to come apart, a hysterical tinge to her voice every time she spoke. Thankfully, Laure had retired to her bed, exhausted and with an aching back. He was tempted to dose Christina with some of Laure's laudanum just to calm her down.

They both heard it at the same time, a pounding on the street door. They froze in expectation, listening to the muffled voices out in the hall. When the salon door opened and a man marched in, Christina blinked at the uniform of the exhausted and bloodstained man standing before her. The facing on his uniform was yellow: Austenburg's Imperial Elite, Varek's legion. Numb, her gaze traveled up to the man's grim face.

Clicking his heels, he bowed, and held out a missive.

As if in slow motion she watched her hand reach out and take the parchment. There was blood on it. She didn't even see the courier's departure; all she could see was the blood staining the edges of the paper.

“Sergei,” she whispered.

He was at her side, his hand supporting hers, which was still extended. “Do you want me to read it?”

Shaking her head, she opened it, the crackling of the paper the only sound in the deathly quiet room.

Sergei, his own heart racing, watched Christina, the emotions stark on her pale face. He felt the room tilt as her shaking hand covered her mouth, and when she looked up at him tears were already pouring down her ashen cheeks. “Oh, God! Oh, God, Sergei,” she choked out. Then she was in his arms and her body was convulsing with the force of her sobs.

Sergei closed his eyes.

“Oh, Sergei, he's alive!” she choked out on a laugh.

“What?” he shouted. Reaching up, he tore the note for her fingers and read,
"Fear not, lark, for I am well. I love you, Varek."

Grabbing her shoulders, he pushed her away and shook her, “Damn you, Christina! I thought he was...” He stared into her drenched eyes, and suddenly they were laughing in hysterical union as he spun her around.

The next knock on the door did not bring such happy tidings.

Robert had been wounded.

Immediately, they were off, Christina dressed in breeches for the convenience of fast riding. By the time they reached the inn at Waterloo where Wellington was staying it was close to midnight, and still the area was a hive of activity, as men saw to the dead and wounded. The smoke and stench was so cloying it stuck in her throat and everywhere she looked the moonlight was glistening off blood. The cries and screams of thousands of men could have been a chorus straight from hell. Everywhere she stepped she had to be careful so as not to stumble on a supine form, either dead or dying or sleeping. She was relieved when she was hustled into a cramped inn and then up the stairs, the air fetid with fresh blood, sweat and smoke.

When she entered a room the only thing she saw was Robert on the bed with two blood-soaked men bent over, and examining his legs, while he writhed and moaned as if tortured.