The Officer and the Proper Lady (13 page)

Hal stooped, his mouth hard on hers like a brand. When he lifted his head, his eyes held hers, dark and bleak. ‘Good bye.' The unspoken word
forever
hung in the air between them. Then he was gone.

They were all going, and the room emptied of colour like the face of a girl about to faint. The uniforms ebbed away out of every door, and all that was left was the white and pale colours of the gowns.

They had all stopped pretending it would never happen, Julia realized. This was reality. Tomorrow—no, today: the clock was striking two—battle would blast their world apart.

There was a chair just behind her; she sat down, her legs too weak to stand safely. Julia knew next to nothing about kissing, but it did seem that had been…heart felt. But Hal was normally so assured, so confident so…fluent. What had made him come out with that painful explanation of why he would not ask her to marry him?

Had she said anything, done anything that had led him to think she expected a proposal? Julia searched her conscience.
No, not wit tingly.

Perhaps it was the prospect of battle and death that made
him think he must not leave any unfinished business, any uncertainties. But Hal had fought in the Peninsula, he must have faced this point of crisis count less times before. And he came back safely then, she reminded herself, her fingers tight on her reticule as though she was holding on to him. He will be safe this time. He must be. He was trying to prepare her for the worst, being cruel to be kind, that was all. And his safety was more important than her feelings.

‘Julia?' It was Lady Geraldine, pale and somehow less
soignée
than she had seemed only a few hours before. ‘We must go, my dear.'

‘Yes, of course, ma'am.' She collected her cloak and followed the erect figure, her mind racing. This changed nothing of what she had resolved to do. ‘Ma'am?'

Lady Geraldine turned at the doorway. ‘Yes, dear?'

‘Would you be so kind as to drop me at the Baron vander Helvig's house? I must change the arrangements for tomorrow.'

‘You will want to leave at first light,' the older woman nodded. ‘Very wise. Would you like me to send the carriage back for you?'

‘Thank you, but I am sure he will give me an escort home, it is very close.'

Now it all depended on the baron. If he refused to help her with her plan, then she did not know what she was going to do.

 

‘You want me to take your mother and brother to Antwerp but to leave you? My dear Miss Julia, you cannot possibly stay in Brussels alone!' The baron, roused from his usual amiable placidity, strode up and down the salon in his dressing gown. His house, like most in Brussels, was a blaze of light despite the hour, and the baron was wide awake supervising the packing of his silver.

‘I am going to stay in our apartment.'

‘But why should you want to?' He threw up his hands and sat down, baffled.

‘I just cannot go,' she replied. ‘I feel I have to stay, very strongly.' She under stood better now, although she could not explain it to the baron, not without betraying her innermost feelings. Hal was going into battle, going to do his duty even though he knew the chances of death or wounding were very great. To run away would be like deserting him and once she had begun to think more clearly—with the icy clarity of terror, she supposed—she saw that there would be a need to nurse the wounded too. A shocking thing for a gently bred girl to do, but she was beyond caring about that, not with Hal's life in the balance.

‘And what does your mother have to say about this?'

‘She does not know,' Julia admitted. ‘I am relying on you, Baron, to say nothing until we are about to leave, then to go on, whatever she says. Otherwise,' she continued as he began to splutter, ‘I will get out at the first stop and do my best to get back. Or run away when we get to Antwerp.'

He stared at her, apparently marshalling arguments to counter this insanity and failing.

‘And I must ask another favour, sir. Will you leave me that big English groom, George, and the gig?'

The baron's beady, intelligent eyes studied her. ‘This is about one officer, is it not? I believe I could put a name to him. You want to be here, if he is wounded.'

‘Yes,' she admitted. ‘I cannot bring myself to leave. And if I had George armed with a shotgun, then I would be safe.' She watched his frowning face for a moment, then added, ‘You see how much safer I will be if I can plan this properly and not just run back here from goodness knows where?'

‘Your mother is going to be beside herself,' he said at
last, and she let out the breath she had not realized she was holding.

‘Yes, but if she knows it is planned and I am guarded…'

‘Very well. I believe you will do this, whether I help you or not. I would say, come here and stay. But if the French take the city, this house is too tempting a target for looters. Your more modest apartment will be safer. I will send George and the horse and gig, and he can sleep in the stables at your lodgings. And I will bear your mother away and she will probably call down curses upon my head all the way to Antwerp.'

‘Thank you so much, Baron.' Julia slumped back in her chair, too tired and relieved to care about deportment. ‘Might one of the footmen walk me home now?'

‘J
ulia!' Mrs Tresilian's voice rose in a shriek as the carriage rolled away from the house in Place de Leuvan in the dawn light. ‘Julia!'

‘Mama,' she said as she ran along side, one hand on the edge of the window. ‘There is a note in your reticule that explains it all. I will be safe here with Madame and with George. Monsieur le Baron will tell you.' Then she had to let go and stand there as the coachman took the turn towards the Anvers Gate and she was left without any of her family, for the first time in her life.

From the direction of the Parc there was a tumult of shouting, bugles, drums. ‘They're mustering in the Place Royale,' George the groom said, coming to stand beside her as an artillery train clattered past, gun carriages bouncing on the cobbles behind the trotting horses. He was a stolid man, good with the horses and more intelligent than his expression less face betrayed. ‘You come inside now, Miss.'

‘No, I want to see—oh, look at that poor woman.' A soldier, knapsack on his back, musket slung over his shoulder, was grasping the hand of a woman with a child in her arms, while
she tried to hold him back for one last embrace. ‘George, I am going to the Parc.'

With the groom grumbling at her heels, Julia began to push through the crowds as the sound of bagpipes made everyone turn. ‘It's the Forty-second,' someone called. ‘And the Ninety-second.' The sound was deafening and yet heartening and the sight of the Highlanders swinging along lifted not only her spirits, but those of everyone around, Julia could see from the watching faces. Were the men marching here amongst those who had played and danced to entertain the guests at the ball last night?

And then, bringing the atmosphere of martial glory crashing down to earth, the market wagons started to rumble into the city, their drivers gawping about them as they found themselves in a world trans formed.

Steadily the men formed up, moved off, the sounds began to fade and an uneasy silence fell over the city as the clocks started to strike seven. The flower beds and the paths of the Parc were crushed and rutted. Under the shade of trees, heavy wagons stood, their horses grazing under armed guard while drivers settled down to sleep on the tilt carts.

‘Those'll be for fetching the wounded later,' George remarked. ‘Look, Miss. There's old Nosey.' And sure enough, Wellington was riding out, his ADCs clustered at his heels.

When they had gone, it felt as if everyone had been holding their breath and now there was a collective sigh. The watchers turned and looked around, shrugged, wandered off as though they did not know what to do next.

‘We must go back and get some rest,' Julia said, trying to sound positive. ‘Nothing will be happening for a while now. Are you settled, George?'

‘Aye, Miss. I'll be fine in the stables with the horse and the gig and my gun. The baron was worried about people stealing them, and I reckon he's right.'

Julia had not expected to sleep, but somehow she did, her dreams restless, filled with images of Hal overlain with the sounds of the morning, the tramp of marching feet, the skirl of the pipes, the rattle of side-drums. She woke from a dream of holding him, to find she was curled around the bolster, its linen cover damp with tears.

Their landlady served a distracted luncheon in the kitchen, while supervising her husband digging holes in the vegetable patch to bury their good pewter and jars of cash. Unlike some Belgians who welcomed the idea of Napoleon's return, she had only hard words for the French and was filled with pessimism.

‘The Allied Army will win, Madame,' Julia tried to reassure her and received a fatalistic shrug in response. ‘What is that? Thunder?' Would it be good or bad for the Allies if the rain came down?

‘No, that's gunfire I reckon, Miss.' George said from his end of the table. He went outside, then came back, shaking his head. ‘Long way away.'

 

The gunfire went on through the afternoon, getting closer and closer, more and more regular. In the city, the streets were full of carriages, horses, hand carts, and people on foot streaming towards the northern gates. Those who were not going stood around in the streets, silent except when a fresh wave of rumours reached them. The French had been slaughtered, they said. Then word came that the Belgian troops had fled, leaving the English to be cut to ribbons as almost two hundred thousand French swept over them. Julia refused to believe it. But no-one seemed to know where the battle was.

She tried to keep calm. It would do Hal no good if she made herself ill imagining the worst. It was very easy to resolve and very hard to do. Finally, with the cannon fire seeming closer yet, she left George guarding the horse and
walked up to the rampart walk. There were no fashionable strollers enjoying the late afternoon air now, only crowds facing south, listening to the re lent less roll of the guns.

‘Wounded!' someone called. ‘Walking wounded.'

It took time to make any sense of what was being shouted. Forward divisions of the Netherlands troops had met the French at a cross roads to the south, at a hamlet called Quatre Bras, and had held them until the Prince of Orange, and then Wellington, arrived with reinforcements. Gradually, more news trickled in, none of it good. The Highland regiments had suffered greatly and the Prussians were engaged some distance away and unable to join up with the Wellington's Army. The Allies were retreating towards Brussels.

‘Boney's managed to split the armies then,' George said as they all sat around the kitchen table pooling what news they had each gathered. ‘Cunning bugger—begging your pardon, Miss.'

‘Listen.' Julia said. ‘The guns have stopped. What's the time?' The clock on the wall said ten. ‘Eight hours, without stopping,' she whispered. ‘Eight hours.'

 

The night seemed endless. Just after midnight, the sound of heavy artillery moving at speed had everyone up and at their windows until the word came that it was heading for the front line. Then at six, a troop of Belgian cavalry galloped through in full retreat. Julia gave up trying to rest at that point, helped Madame make break fast and tried to make sense of what their more sensible neighbours were saying.

‘I am going down to the Hôtel de Flandres,' she told George, packing a flask of brandy and the bandages she had been tearing from old sheets into a basket. ‘Monsieur Grignot says that the wounded are being taken back to their original billets because the hospitals are already full. I will look for Major Carlow there.' Finally she had admitted out loud why
she had stayed. She felt slightly drunk, she realized. It must be reaction, or perhaps the lack of sleep. ‘You had better stay here and guard the horses.'

‘But, Miss—'

‘The streets are full of decent people and the only soldiers are wounded ones: no-one will trouble me.' She jammed her plainest bonnet over tightly braided hair, picked up the basket and hurried out.

The sound of gunfire had her ducking into an alleyway, her heart in her mouth, then she realized they were shooting wounded horses. Every house seemed to have doors and windows open, and through them she could glimpse men, sitting or lying wherever there was room. The towns people were throwing them selves into caring for the injured.

The hotel that had been Hal's lodging was as full of men as any she had passed, but she could see no blue uniforms with buff facings. One tall infantry officer leaning against the wall, with his arm in a sling and his face half covered with a bandage, seemed well enough to speak to.

‘The 11th Light Dragoons?' He smiled, a lopsided grimace. ‘Arrived too late to fight, came in just after darkness. They had to ride from Ninove,' he added, as though to excuse them. ‘But they'll be in it now. Fighting retreat, that's what happening.'

‘Retreat into Brussels?' Julia asked, feeling dizzy. Yesterday—last night—Hal had been safe. But today? Around her, the sounds of men groaning, the bustle of helpers, and the arrival of more stretchers filled her ears. The smells were all stomach-turning: blood, sweat, smoke and worse.

‘No. Wellington will protect the city at all costs. Mont St Jean is where we were headed for, just south of Waterloo.' Julia pulled the brandy flask from her basket and opened it for him. ‘Thank you, ma'am. Your man with the eleventh?'

‘My—yes, my man is with them,' she said, lifting her chin,
feeling her pride in Hal stiffen her backbone. ‘It all seems so chaotic here, I wonder how I can best help.'

‘Water, ma'am, that'll be the most welcome,' the man advised her, handing back the flask.

‘Then that's what I will do.' Julia found a niche with a statue in it, incongruously elegant over looking the bloody scene. She sat her hat on its head, stuffed basket and cloak behind it, rolled up her sleeves and went to find the kitchens.

It was raining and almost dark when she stumbled out again at last. She had done all she could for the day, now she needed to wash, eat, snatch some sleep before she returned in the morning. The rain lashed down as she toiled up the hill and she tried not to think what it must be like out there in the darkness knowing that tomorrow you were going into battle.

 

Hal pulled his heavy felted cloak right over his head and leaned against Max's front legs. Above him, the big horse shifted, cocked up a hoof and, resigned to the rain, settled again under the scant shelter of a spindly tree. Hal reached up to make sure he had loosened the girth and that the other cloak was still over the saddle and Max's dappled rear quarters as a loud squelching announced that someone was rash enough to be moving about in the downpour.

‘Who's that?'

‘Trooper 'arris, sir.'

Ah yes, the man who had taken over from Godfrey at the races. Godfrey was still off sick with pains in his guts and constant vomiting. Hal wondered if the man would rather be here or on his sick bed. He knew which bed he would like to be in. A fantasy of Julia, slim and curved and pale against the dark green silk bed cover his imagination conjured up sent flickering heat into his loins and he groaned.

What on earth had prompted him to speak as he had? Hal
rubbed cold hands across his face. He must have been out of his mind. And he had hurt her too. She was growing fond of him, perhaps even, if that half-spoken word in the carriage had been what he suspected, thought herself in love with him.

She had every right to expect an honourable proposal, and she was too innocent to under stand why he could not, must not, offer marriage to a virtuous, well-brought-up young woman. She deserved someone of sub stance, of moral worth. Someone with a future.

It was not as though she came from the sort of aristocratic back ground where even the daughters were well aware of the rackety lives their fathers and brothers lived.

He had no business indulging those half-under stood urges towards stability and family at her expense. Look at him now! Half drowned in a sodden field and likely to come back tomorrow wounded, if he came back at all. What sort of husband would he make if he lived—leaving aside his character, reputation and general un suitability?

So it had been right to tell her, bluntly, even if it left her hating him. But it hadn't. The memory of her innocent mouth under his, her instinctive, sensual, unawakened response filled him with a kind of humble gratitude.

Was she thinking of him? He thought she would be, safely tucked away in Antwerp. That last kiss that had turned his brain and his will power into jelly, was not given lightly.

Of course, if he was killed tomorrow, she was safe from him, he thought ruefully. And if he wasn't, he would just have to make certain he never saw her again. She would think he was having second thoughts about her if he did, think he was going back on his word.

Hell.
Hal scrubbed at his cold face again. Did it matter what she thought of him, so long as she did not make a mistake she would regret for the rest of her life?

That was a plan: be killed or be a bastard. Now all he had to do was get through tomorrow. God, he was itching to get into action. The frustration of that long, hard ride only to arrive after dark with orders to help cover the retreat, was intense.

Max shifted, his neck snaking out to bite something. ‘Hey!' Hal twisted round to see what he was attacking.

‘Sorry, sir. I must have got too close.' It was Harris again. ‘Big bugger isn't he? Nasty teeth.'

‘Yes.' Hal closed his eyes, ‘He's as good as an armed bodyguard.'

The rain lashed down.

 

‘They've broken! The Old Guard has broken!'

The cry ran along the front of the Allied lines from the right flank to where the Light Dragoons fretted in reserve on the counter-slope of the left flank. Since eleven that morning when the first attack began at Hougoumont, the Dragoons had waited, their only occupation dodging fire, rallying faltering units ahead of them and making occasional forays to hold the extreme end of the line.

Now it was past seven in the evening. Hal had a hole through the top of his shako, a slight wound where a spent bullet had hit his right upper arm, and a burning sense of frustration. ‘Damn it, Will,' he said to Captain Grey, who was standing beside him. ‘When the hell is Vandeleur going to let us go?'

‘Any minute now.' Will grinned and gestured at the rider galloping flat out from Wellington's position.

‘Mount up,' Hal yelled, swinging into the saddle. ‘Form line!'

There was cheering all around him as he steadied Max. Vandeleur was indicating a mass of French cavalry in front of
a battery of artillery that was still holding firm. The objective was clear: take the guns.

The next few minutes were bloody, fast and deadly. The French cavalry steadied, formed up and discharged a hail of carbine fire before turning, as though on parade, and cantering to the rear through the guns. Out of the corner of his eye, Hal saw Will slump over his pommel. He reined Max back, pulled his friend straight in the saddle and turned his horse's head to the rear, sending it on its way with a slap on the rump. It was all he could do for him.