Web of Love (10 page)

“I love you,” she said, putting her arms up around his neck despite the presence of a footman who was waiting to open the door into the street for Lord Eden. “If you don't have time to come, that is all I want you to know and take with you. I love you.”

“I know that, you goose,” he said, hugging her briefly but hard. “I am just a little fond of you too, if you would believe it.” He grinned at her and was gone.

Madeline resisted the urge to throw something at his retreating back only because there was nothing within her reach to throw. She sighed and turned back to the drawing room.

 

L
ORD
E
DEN CALLED
at Captain Simpson's rooms on the Rue de la Montagne that same evening, though he was not sure that they were to be at home. He might have been sure before the arrival of Miss Simpson, since Charlie and his wife far preferred to sit at home together in the evenings than to seek out some entertainment. But things had changed, of course, with the arrival of that young lady.

He wanted to take his leave of her. And he wanted it done that day rather than wait until early the following morning before she left with Edmund and Alexandra. He wanted it all over with. He wanted them gone. And how could he admit as much even to himself without sounding as if he were lacking in natural affections?

Lord Eden had always found leave-takings painful. He would have liked to walk out of Edmund's house that afternoon without saying a word to anyone. He would like to avoid this farewell to Miss Simpson. Saying good-bye was difficult at any time. Saying it when one knew that it might well be forever was grueling beyond words.

He wanted to be free of all ties of affection. He wanted to be able to concentrate his mind and his emotions on what was coming. He wished Madeline had decided to go home too. He did not want her there in Brussels, making a constant claim on his emotional energy. And how ungrateful that sounded when she was risking her very life just so that she might stay close to him. She would never understand if he tried to explain to her. She would think that he did not care for her. And she would start hurling things at his head and yelling unladylike imprecations, and otherwise showing him that she was deeply hurt.

It was at times like this that he was glad that he was not married or even deeply attached to one woman. For he had found from past experience that before a major battle he must blank from his mind all the people who were most dear to him. He must live as if they did not exist. The men under him must become his family, the only persons for whose safety and welfare he had any concern. His commanding officers must become the only persons who had any claim on his loyalty and obedience and trust.

He did not envy Charlie at such times. Mrs. Simpson was always with him. How would it be possible to take one's leave of one's wife and go immediately into battle? How would it be possible to concentrate on the task at hand when one knew her to be very close and like to get hurt if the tide of battle went against one's own army? He shuddered.

He had watched them once, when they had come out of Charlie's tent with perhaps one minute in which to say their farewells. They had clung wordlessly together, the faces of both pale and totally without expression, so that he had turned away from the sight, more pained than embarrassed that he had been the unwitting witness to such an embrace between husband and wife. And it had taken Charlie a good ten minutes to come out of his stupor and become his usual cheerful, determined, even reckless self as he rushed into battle.

The three of them were at home when Lord Eden arrived at his friend's house. But he did not stay long. Conversation was labored. All four of them were fully aware that there was so little time left in which to talk. And how could one talk meaningfully when constrained to do so? He took tea with them and rose to leave. He held out a hand to Jennifer and smiled at her.

“I will wish you bon voyage, Miss Simpson,” he said, “and hope that you will not be seasick on the return journey.”

Charlie drew his wife into an adjoining room, he noticed, leaving the door open between.

“I am sure I shall not,” she said, “now that I am a seasoned traveler.” She placed her hand in his.

“I am glad you came,” he said. “I have been happy to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours,” she said. “I hope this horrid war comes to nothing after all.”

He smiled. “There are many soldiers wishing differently,” he said. “There are many wanting just one more chance to score a big victory against Bonaparte.”

“And you?” she said. “Are you eager for battle?”

How could he explain to her that it was a necessity of his nature to fight for his country and all it stood for, with his life if need be? That there was almost an exhilaration now, a need to assert what he believed in?

“Not for the killing,” he said. “But I want to be part of this fight against tyranny.”

“Well, then,” she said. “Good-bye, my lord. I will pray that you will be kept safe.”

“Will you?” he said. “And may I call on you when I return to England?”

She flushed as she looked up at him. “If you wish,” she said. “I would like that.”

He lifted her hand, which still lay in his, and kissed it. “I do wish it,” he said. “I am glad you are to travel with my brother. I will know that you are safe.”

“He is very kind,” she said, “and her ladyship. I like them.”

“Good-bye, then,” he said. And he squeezed her hand until he was aware of her wincing. He released it immediately.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Please keep yourself safe,” she said. “Please!” And she lifted both hands and placed her fingertips lightly against his cheeks for a brief moment. She looked over her shoulder rather jerkily. “Papa,” she called. “Papa, Lord Eden wishes to say good night to you.” And she was gone from the room almost before Charlie was back in it.

Damnation to all leave-taking, Lord Eden was thinking a few minutes later as he strode down the street in the direction of his new billet. Now what had he done? Had he raised expectations? Was he now honor-bound to make her an offer when he returned to England? And did he want to? He was not at all sure. And he did not want to be plagued by such thoughts, such problems, such doubts. He wanted to be free of all emotion.

Devil take it. He had only just stopped himself from scooping her into his arms and pouring out his love for her and his desire to keep her safe from anxiety for the rest of her life. Would he never learn? Did he love her?

He did not know and did not want to know at that particular moment. He would not think of it. How much longer before they were finally engaged against the French? A week? Two? It could not be soon enough for him. He was ready. He was restless. He needed to get at it, this great battle that he had decided would be his last in one way or another. Time enough afterward to think about love. Not now!

He was glad to find his friend at home in the rather sparsely furnished and very masculine rooms that were now his new home too. Captain Norton's boots, none too clean, were crossed at the ankles on the table before him. His hands were clasped behind his head as he contemplated a corner of the ceiling. There were a half-empty bottle of cognac and a glass on the table.

“Old Picton is due to arrive in Brussels any day,” Lord Eden said, flinging his hat onto a chair that was already overloaded with discarded clothes. “Newly appointed commander of the Fifth, in case you had forgotten, Norton my lad. You had better not thrust those boots into his face the way they look now if you know what is good for you.”

“Why polish them before it is absolutely necessary to do so?” his friend asked cheerfully, a slight slur to his speech. “Find a glass, Eden, and pour yourself some cognac. Hate to drink alone. There should be one underneath all those papers on the chair. Letters from m'mother and the girls. They all write books instead of letters. I must read them sometime. Remind me.”

Lord Eden found a glass, carefully avoided inspecting it too closely for cleanliness, settled at the table, his own highly polished boots joining those of his friend, and reached for the bottle.

 

O
N
W
EDNESDAY
, J
UNE
14, the rumor began to circulate that the French army was concentrated about Mauberge to the south and had even crossed the frontier into Belgium. Word had it that Bonaparte himself was at its head. If it was true, people said, old Boney had done it again. He had taken his fellow generals of Europe by surprise.

It was ridiculous to say such a thing, of course, when the whole spring had been taken up with nothing else but preparations for just such an eventuality. But still, people said, when every day brought a dozen rumors, truth took one rather unawares. The duke, of course, had his spies and would not be so dependent upon rumor as almost everyone else. But the duke had really expected that the attack would come from the west and the north, had he not? That was where he would attack if he were Bonaparte. He would try to cut off the allied army from the channel coast.

But then, Bonaparte could never be relied upon to behave with predictability and good sense. That was the very fiendishness and brilliance of the man, depending upon whether one feared or admired him more. Those people in Brussels in June 1815 tended to fear him.

And of course, no one knew for certain that this rumor was true, except perhaps the duke himself, and everyone knew how tight-lipped he could be. The more he smiled and looked relaxed, the more truth there was likely to be in what they had all heard. And the duke was looking very relaxed these days. There were those who began nervously to pack their belongings and choose their route to the coast, either to Ostend or to Antwerp.

At three o'clock in the afternoon of June 15, word reached the Prince of Orange as he sat at dinner with the Duke of Wellington that the Second Prussian Brigade of General Ziethen's First Corps had been attacked by the French army during the early morning and that the attack was being directed on Charleroi.

At four o'clock the duke received a dispatch from General Ziethen himself to say that Thuin had been captured. But Wellington was reluctant to act too hastily. Although he did not doubt the truth of either piece of news, he was not sure that the attacks were not merely a ruse to draw off the major portion of his army to the south while Bonaparte himself came along the expected westerly route of attack.

The duke made quiet plans to send his troops into action while waiting, patiently or impatiently—who could tell which with the duke?—for more definite word from Grant, his intelligence officer at Mons.

How did word of these matters leak out into the streets and salons of Brussels? Who knew? But leak out it did, causing excitement, exhilaration, despair, panic, just about every extreme emotion of which man is capable. On the whole, the troops hoped it was all true and that they would see action before another day had passed. The period of waiting was telling on taut nerves.

Most of the women felt despair. Some clung tearfully to their menfolk. Some demanded to be taken from the scene of the danger immediately. Some, especially those who had had experience with army life, began busily and quietly to prepare and roll bandages, bought at chemists' shops or torn from sheets and shirts. Some continued with their lives as if nothing unusual were happening. And perhaps nothing was. The spring had been full of such false alerts.

Plans proceeded unchecked for the grand ball to be held that evening at the Duchess of Richmond's house on the Rue de la Blanchisserie. Everyone who had any claim to gentility had been invited. And it was said that the Duke of Wellington and all his personal staff had every intention of attending even if the French were already in Belgium and part of the Prussian army put to rout.

Ellen and Captain Simpson decided not to go to the ball, though they had been invited and had considered going. They sat at home hand in hand until he put his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer. And they talked about any piece of nonsense they could lay their minds to.

Charlie was eager to be on his way, Ellen knew, as he always was at such times. And she must sit with him, quietly cheerful, doing and saying nothing that might distract him from the concentration he was beginning to build inside himself for what was to come. She knew and she understood that he grew away from her at such times. He was as affectionate, as loving. But he always talked to her of what he had done to provide for her in the event of his death—though the possibility was never expressed baldly in words like that—several days before there was any real chance of active service. Never, except under the severest surprise attack, at the last moment.

Before seven o'clock the duke had ordered the Second and Fifth divisions to gather at Ath in readiness to move at a moment's notice. Most of the officers remained in Brussels, and many of them intended to go to the ball. But the time had definitely come. There would be no more waiting around.

It was almost a relief. Ellen rested her head against her husband's shoulder and closed her eyes. They lapsed into silence. Neither made any move to go to bed, though the hour was late. They would not make love. The time for such intimacy was past, even if it had not been the wrong time of the month for Ellen. They would wait. Charlie would be called before morning came. Better to be up and ready. Her arm stole around his waist, and he kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder.

They both rose to their feet quite calmly when Lord Eden's knock sounded at the door. They had expected it. The moment had come.

L
ORD EDEN HAD DECIDED TO ATTEND THE Duchess of Richmond's ball even though his division was already under orders and it was perfectly obvious that he would be on the march before the night was out. The house on the Rue de la Blanchisserie was, in fact, crowded with officers of all ranks. The entertainment was perhaps the perfect outlet for nervous energies that found it difficult, if not impossible, to wait quietly.

Lord Eden danced and smiled and conversed with the ladies, and listened to numerous conflicting reports of what was happening and what was about to happen on the borders between France and Belgium. He was as eager as anyone else for some definite word, and he looked, as everyone else did, for the duke, and wondered what his absence might mean.

He happened to have Susan Jennings on his arm when some Scottish soldiers, splendidly clad in their kilts and full Highland dress, marched into the ballroom to the music of the bagpipes and entertained the company with reels and strathspeys. It was difficult to imagine that the same soldiers might be in battle before another day was done. Difficult, that was, unless one stood quite still for a moment and felt the very tangible tension behind the surface gaiety of the ballroom.

“How wonderful they are!” Susan said. “I wish I were Scottish every time I see them.”

“I think I am glad I was never called upon to use my wind to blow into those pipes,” Lord Eden said. “Has your husband left already, Susan? I have not seen him.”

“He is still here,” she said. “And please do not talk about his leaving or anyone else's leaving. I shall faint quite away at the very thought.”

“You, Susan?” he said, smiling down at her. “You have a great deal more courage than you will admit to, my dear. You were in Spain. And you have remained here.”

“I try,” she said, raising large tear-filled eyes to his. “I try to be brave, my lord, but I am just a poor timid thing, as you must know. I must be a burden on those who know me.”

“I am sure you are not,” he said. “I am sure your husband honors your courage, Susan. It takes far more fortitude to appear brave when one feels afraid, you know.”

“I try to be brave,” she said, one tear spilling over and down her cheek. “You understand how hard it is for me, my lord. Thank you. My husband is sometimes rather brusque with me. Though I do not believe he means to be unkind.”

Lord Eden smiled and was relieved to see that the orchestra was ready to begin the next set of dances. He was engaged to dance it with Madeline.

The Duke of Wellington, looking as genial and relaxed as he always did in society, arrived at the ball soon after midnight. But any hope—or fear—that the latest rumors and panic were as ill-founded as all those that had preceded them was almost immediately put to rest. The duke, normally reluctant even to mention military matters at a social event, admitted that the troops were finally off to war the next day.

Later, during supper, a dispatch was delivered to the Prince of Orange with the news that Charleroi had fallen and that the French were already twenty miles into Belgian territory. But the news caused a sensation only to a very depleted gathering. Most of the officers had already taken their leave in order to rejoin their regiments.

Lord Eden sought out Madeline before he left. He drew her into the hallway beyond the ballroom, but there was no chance of any great privacy. It did not matter. Under the circumstances, two people could find all the privacy they needed merely by looking into each other's eyes.

She clung to his hands. “You are going, Dom?” she said. “I am glad I have stayed. I have always hated you for this, you know, and have thought it all so senseless. But sometimes the most senseless and brutal deeds are necessary. And this is. I can see it, having been here for a while. You have every reason to go. You are using your life heroically. I am very proud to be your twin.”

He was rather white-faced. “Mad,” he said, and swallowed, “I always hate this business. You know that. What can I say that will have any meaning?”

She smiled. “Nothing,” she said. “We don't need words, you and I. Just go, Dom. Go now, my dear.”

He squeezed her hands until she bit her lip with the pain. “Don't grieve too much for me,” he said. “If anything happens, go on living, Mad. And be happy. This is something I want to do, and I do not regret what it may cost me.”

“Go,” she said, still smiling. “Kiss me once and go.”

He held her hands still as he kissed her. “I'll be back,” he said with a sudden grin before turning and hurrying away down the stairs. “I have no intention of relinquishing my claim to be the elder twin, you know.”

She stood smiling after him until he was out of sight. And then the fan that she held broke in two in her hands.

Lord Eden hurried back to his billet to change out of his ball clothes, and found Captain Norton all ready to leave, alert and smartly dressed now that it was time to go into action.

“You go on ahead,” Lord Eden said when it seemed that the captain would have waited for him. “I promised to call on Simpson if there was need. We will catch up to you somewhere.”

His friend grinned at him. “Don't delay too long,” he said. “You might miss all the fun.”

“Not a chance!” Lord Eden said with a laugh, hurling a silk shirt to the floor and trampling over it a moment later as he went for his boots.

Charlie was not in bed, he found less than half an hour later as he knocked on the door to his rooms. There was light within. If he knew his friend, he was probably all ready to leave.

Their faces were very set and without expression, he saw immediately when Charlie opened the door. He tried to smile. “It's time to go,” he said.

He would have turned and left, but Charlie went from the room, and Mrs. Simpson stood looking at him. Her face was quite composed and quite without color. She held out both her hands to him.

“You will take care of yourself,” she said.

“Yes.” He smiled and took her hands. “And you, ma'am.”

There was a wonderful comfort in her presence. He never had known what caused it. He would have avoided taking any leave of her if he could. But he was not sorry now that he was holding her hands and looking down into her eyes. Perhaps Charlie was to be envied after all. He squeezed her hands.

“Come home again,” she said quietly. “Please come back again.”

“Yes,” he said.

And when he released her hands, she came into his arms and raised her face for his kiss. And he felt none of the terrible sick panic he had felt with all the others—with Edmund and Alexandra and the children, with Madeline. Only a certain peace as he kissed her and then hugged her to him and breathed in that fragrance from her hair that had haunted him for a few days. And a release of new energy that was no longer nervous energy, but a purposeful desire to go out and do the job that he was trained to do.

He smiled down at Ellen Simpson as she released him. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said. And he looked up briskly at his friend, who had been standing quietly in the room since she had spoken her last words. “I'll see you outside in a few minutes, Charlie.”

Ellen turned to her husband and looked at him as if down a long tunnel. He held out his arms to her.

“Well, lass,” he said.

“Charlie.” She put herself against him, her face pressed to his shoulder.

And he rocked her in his arms. They communicated at a level far deeper than words. He put her from him eventually and held her face in his hands.

“My precious, precious treasure!” he whispered, and kissed her once, briefly, on the lips. “My sweetheart.”

“Go now,” she said as she always said to him on such occasions.

And after the door had closed quietly behind him, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She did not dare move. Not yet.

So. It was done. She had sent her men on their way, and there remained only the wait to see if either or both of them would come back to her again.

Charlie, her love. The light of her life. The precious only light. The only person on this earth she would gladly, gladly die for. The only person she could not—dared not—contemplate living without.

And Lord Eden—Dominic. Her husband's friend. Her friend. Beautiful, smiling, charming Lord Eden, whom she had seen reluctantly, unwillingly, in the past weeks as a man. As a very attractive man of her own age. And now he was going with Charlie into the carnage of war. She might never see him again.

And so she had sent him on his way with her love. She had kissed him as a mother might. As a sister might. And perhaps a little differently from either.

And Charlie was gone.

Charlie was gone.

She continued to stare at the door even when, eventually, it blurred before her eyes.

 

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
was the worst waking nightmare Madeline had ever lived through. She began the day badly, rising for an early breakfast, though she had hardly slept at all. Lady Andrea's manner, she found, was as brisk and as heartily cheerful as it ever was, though the colonel too had left from the ball to join his regiment, without returning home to change from his evening clothes. The two ladies were alone in the house apart from the servants. Mr. Mason, Lady Andrea's father, was already out seeing what news he could discover.

And they were to spend the day, Madeline discovered, laying in as many supplies as they could, both of food and of medical necessities, clearing rooms of unnecessary furniture, and gathering as many sheets, blankets, and pillows as they could lay their hands on. It mattered not at all that there were servants in the house who might be set to performing these tasks.

“Soon it will not signify whether we are tavern maids or the Queen of England or anything else in between,” Lady Andrea said. “They will send the wounded back here, you know, and before we know it, there will be scarce room even in the streets for them all. We will be ready to take in as many as we can.”

Madeline blanched at the mental image of wounded soldiers—those same soldiers whom she had seen thronging the streets and dancing at the Duchess of Richmond's ball only the day before.

“There will be surgeons?” she asked.

“They will probably all stay at the front,” her friend said, seemingly quite unmoved by the horror of her own words. “The wounded who are sent back here will be dependent upon our care. We must be ready for them.”

“I have no experience. I will not know what to do.” Madeline swallowed awkwardly.

Lady Andrea allowed herself a short bark of laughter. “Yes, you will, my dear,” she said. “Of course, I forget that you are raw out of England. Believe me, Madeline, my dear girl, by this time tomorrow or the day after, you will know exactly what to do. You will see need and you will be there to supply it. We do not know what inner resources we have until they are called upon.”

But she had none, Madeline thought. She would not even be able to shut herself away in the kitchen and cook broths for the wounded. She did not know how to cook. And the sight of blood made her feel faint.

“Don't worry,” Lady Andrea said, patting her on the arm and rising resolutely from the breakfast table. “When the time comes, you will be far too busy to remember that you are a delicately nurtured young lady.”

Perhaps there was some truth to that, Madeline thought as the day proceeded and she rushed about without maid or chaperone, though the streets were far more crowded than usual. Although a surprising number of people seemed to be going about their business as usual, there was also an unusual press of vehicles in the streets, piled high with baggage and furniture, often pulled by fewer horses than was customary with the particular conveyance.

People were leaving Brussels in droves. But it was not easy, one chance-met acquaintance told Madeline. Some other mutual acquaintances who had tried to leave by barge on the canal to Antwerp had found that there were no barges available. They had all been commandeered under the duke's orders for the purpose of bringing artillery up to the front. Horses were selling for a king's ransom, and the crudest wagon for a fortune. People were panicking.

Madeline was glad that she had more than enough to do. There was no time to panic or to worry about Dom. She would not think of Dom. She bought all the bandages and all the laudanum that one chemist was willing to sell her and hurried back home with them.

There was no news, though Mr. Mason made frequent outings during the day and both ladies were constantly in and out of the house bound on some errand. But the guns began in the afternoon. Madeline was outside and looked up in some surprise to find that indeed there were no clouds either above or on the horizon that could presage a thunderstorm. And then she realized that the sound was not thunder and felt her knees turn to jelly and her stomach perform a somersault.

And it was not quite accurate to say that she could hear the guns, she realized. She could feel the guns. The sound was too deep and too distant to have any great effect upon the ear. But the echoes and vibrations could be felt to the very marrow of the bones.