by Diane Gaston
He and Grant had visited the sights of the city when they’d first arrived. It had been a pleasure to visit the churches and other fine structures, as well as the Grand Place with its old Gothic guild buildings. What would Helene think of the Manneken Pis, he wondered, whose water poured out from a singular place in a statue of a small boy?
She stepped back. ‘Forgive me, Rhys. I am acting like a tourist. We should go.’
He did not offer his arm. After all, they were not strolling together as companions or lovers, like other couples they passed.
They turned left on the Rue de la Montagne and took the first right which led to the Theatre Royale. Once there Rhys asked a man for directions to Rue de l’Evêque. It was not far. Just a little way beyond the theatre and past the Hotel de Monnaies. They entered a street lined with modest grey or white stone buildings at least three storeys high. Most housed shops on the lower floors. Rhys asked several people where to find Louise Desmet, and they were finally directed to a thin building wedged between two larger ones with shops underneath.
The door was directly on the street. He knocked.
A slim woman with grey hair peeking out from a plain white cap opened the door a crack. Her plain dress was covered by an apron, like clothes worn by so many of the ordinary women of Brussels. She looked to be about Wilson’s age, although Rhys could not guess how old that might be.
Helene spoke first, in French. ‘Pardon, madame, we are looking for Louise Desmet.’
The woman eyed her with some suspicion. ‘I am Madame Desmet.’
Helene expelled a relieved breath. ‘I am so glad we have found you! We come with a message from Wilson—from Samuel Wilson.’
The woman’s eyes darted from Helene to Rhys and back again. ‘Samuel?’
Helene continued. ‘He wanted you to know he cannot call upon you.’
Madame Desmet’s features drooped in disappointment, but her expression changed quickly to one of mistrust. ‘And who are you to deliver me such a message?’
Rhys spoke. ‘This is Lady Helene Banes. Wilson—Mr Wilson—is in her family’s employ.’
Comprehension dawned on Madame Desmet’s face.
He went on. ‘I am Captain Landon, a...family friend.’
Madame Desmet opened the door wider. ‘Please, come in,’ she said in perfect, lightly accented English.
‘You speak English?’ Helene said in surprise.
Madame Desmet did not respond, but simply waited for them to enter a small hall. There were stairs to an upper floor directly in front of them and a small hallway to the right. She led them up the stairs which opened to a tidy sitting room with two upholstered chairs facing a small fireplace. On the chair closest to the single narrow window lay some sewing which Madame Desmet quickly snatched up. She moved the sewing to a table upon which was a small wooden sewing box. Its open lid revealed scissors and some spools of thread.
She gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit down. May I offer refreshment?’
‘Oh, no,’ Helene said as she sat. ‘We will not trouble you.’
Rhys had been in houses similar to this. He imagined the kitchen was on the floor below with a table and chairs to eat upon instead of a dining room. Above would be one or two bedchambers. There might be an attic room for a servant, if she had one. This was not poverty, but a comfortable existence. He was fairly certain Helene had never been in such a modest house. Even the vicarage where he’d grown up was spacious compared to this.
He watched Helene’s reaction, but she seemed to take no notice. Her eyes remained fixed on their hostess.
Madame Desmet picked up a wooden chair from a corner of the room. Rhys moved quickly to take it from her.
‘Allow me,’ he said, placing it near where Helene sat. He lowered himself into it, leaving the upholstered chair for Madame Desmet.
She looked uncertain for a moment before accepting the more comfortable chair. ‘May I ask why you have come and not Samuel? Did he change his mind about seeing me? Why send you and not simply write another letter?’
Helene bit her lip and glanced at Rhys.
He leaned forward. ‘He is ill, madame. Too ill to write.’
‘Ill?’ Her voice rose.
‘He has a fever,’ Helene explained. ‘He’s very weak, but he insisted we get a message to you.’
Rhys added, ‘We decided to do so in person, rather than engage a messenger.’ They were talking as they used to do, he realised, as if speaking with one voice.
Madame Desmet stared past them. ‘How ill is he?’
Helene gave her a wan smile. ‘We have every hope of his recovery.’
The older woman closed her eyes and looked as if someone had stabbed her in the heart. She stood abruptly, making both Rhys and Helene jump.
‘I must see him!’ she cried.
‘He may be contagious,’ Helene warned.
‘I do not care if he is. Please, Lady Helene, I must see him!’ she cried.
Rhys stood and turned to Helene. ‘We should take her to him.’
Helene attempted a reassuring smile for the woman. ‘Of course we will take you to him.’
‘Let us go now,’ Madame Desmet said, her tone frantic. She removed her apron and descended the stairs, grabbing a shawl and bonnet from pegs on the wall next to the door.
Helene and Rhys exchanged a glance, a silent communication that her urgency had surprised them both. They’d so often not needed words to know what the other was thinking. In the past, that was.
They followed Madame Desmet out the door.
Once outside the older woman walked swiftly, knowing, of course, the way to the hotel. Helene skipped hurriedly to catch up to her.
‘May I ask how you know Wilson?’ Helene asked,
‘We met years ago,’ Madame Desmet said.
‘In Brussels?’
‘Oui.’
‘Wilson was in Brussels?’ Helene was nearly out of breath at the older woman’s fast pace.
‘Long ago,’ Madame Desmet replied. ‘Before the war.’
And the occupation by the French, Helene presumed. She still thought of Wilson as a child might, that his existence began and continued with her life, not that he’d had a life before coming to Yarford House.
‘He never spoke of it,’ Helene said.
Madame Desmet looked at her as if she were a simpleton. ‘He is a servant, no?’
Of course. What servant ever spoke of their own life?
Rhys, with his long legs, had no difficulty keeping up. ‘What brought Wilson to Brussels, then?’
‘He served a young gentleman on his grand tour,’ Madame explained.
Before the war with Napoleon, a trip to the Continent had been customary for wealthy young gentlemen, who were accompanied by a tutor and a servant to tend to their needs. The young gentleman was expected to expand his knowledge by visiting the major sights and cities of the various countries, to immerse himself in their art and architecture. Helene was not such a green girl to fail knowing that a young gentleman’s education might also include brothels and gaming rooms for an entirely different sort of education.
What an adventure it must have been for Wilson, as well.
Helene had a dozen more questions, but it was too difficult to walk this briskly and carry on a conversation at the same time.
As they passed the cathedral, Madame Desmet dashed across the street ahead of Rhys and Helene. Helene, trying to keep up with her, stepped into the street. At the same time, a speeding carriage came around the corner. Its two horses, sweat gleaming on their coats, headed straight for her. She froze in alarm.
Suddenly strong arms pulled her back, slamming her against a rock-hard chest. Rhys held her there, his arms encircling her, as the carriage thundered past making the ground tremble beneath the horses’ powerful hooves.
Helene’s
senses burst into life. The fright at almost being run down. The glory of being held by him.
‘Rhys,’ she whispered.
He abruptly released her. ‘Take more care, Helene,’ he said gruffly.
He seized her arm and led her across the street, releasing her the minute they were on the pavement again.
Madame Desmet was several paces ahead of them and apparently had not seen her close call. Helene glanced at Rhys whose expression turned to stone.
Helene felt tears sting her eyes—of anger and perhaps relief. She might have been killed! Rhys saved her, but in such an unfeeling, gruff way that she felt trampled upon, nonetheless.
She caught up with Madame Desmet at the door of the hotel. Helene swallowed her own feelings and turned her attention to the older woman. ‘Do you need a moment or shall we take you to his room directly?’
‘Take me to his room,’ Madame Desmet said, her voice trembling.
Rhys offered Madame Desmet his arm. ‘Come,’ he said gently.
Madame Desmet was offered kindness and Helene received a mere scolding? She trailed behind them, watching Rhys climb the stairs slowly, knowing he was doing so to help Madame Desmet compose herself before entering Wilson’s room. Knowing, too, that he did not care a fig if Helene followed or not. It seemed he had not changed quite as much as she thought. He’d merely changed towards her.
Rhys and Madame Desmet had already gained entry to Wilson’s room when Helene stepped through the doorway.
‘He is dozing,’ Mrs Jacobs was telling them.
Rhys held Madame Desmet back from rushing to the bedside. ‘Mrs Jacobs, this is Madame Desmet. She is the Louise Wilson has been calling for.’ He turned to Madame Desmet. ‘Mrs Jacobs is his nurse.’
Mrs Jacobs, certainly unable to miss the distress and worry in Madame Desmet’s face, took her in hand, and placed a comforting arm around her. ‘I am certain you will be like a tonic to him.’ She squeezed her a little, like one might do a child. ‘We will wake him. Tell him you are here.’
‘I’ll wake him,’ Rhys said. He quietly approached the bed and gently touched Wilson on the shoulder. ‘Wilson. Wilson. You have a visitor.’
The older man’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled faintly at Rhys. Rhys stepped aside and gestured for Madame Desmet to approach.
‘Samuel?’ Her voice cracked. ‘Samuel.’ She flew to his side.
Wilson’s face beamed as if lit by the sun. ‘Louise,’ he whispered, reaching for her hand.
She grasped it and, lowering herself into the chair, placed his hand against her cheek. ‘I am here, Samuel.’
Tears again stung Helene’s eyes, but this time due to this tender scene.
Mrs Jacobs, her arms crossing her chest, nodded her head. ‘They were lovers, you can bet upon it. I can always tell.’
Rhys, who had paid Helene no attention at all since her close encounter with the carriage, now turned to her, but his expression remained grim. To her dismay, her insides fluttered in response to his gaze. She supposed she would always react to his eyes upon her, even when he hurt her.
Helene walked past him to Wilson’s bedside. She squatted down so that she could be almost at eye level with him. ‘See, Wilson? We have brought your Louise to you. She may remain at your side for as long as you and she wish. I am going to leave you now, but I will return later to check on you.’
With his free hand, Wilson reached for hers, clasping it firmly. ‘Thank you, m’lady. Thank you.’
She did not deserve all his credit. ‘Rhys accompanied me. I could not have found your Louise without his help.’
‘Rhys?’ the old man cried. ‘Rhys is here?’
Helene frowned. He’d not remembered it was Rhys who had awakened him?
Rhys came to Helene’s side. ‘I am here, Wilson. Here to help in whatever way I can.’
‘With Lady Helene again!’ Wilson turned to Madame Desmet. ‘Is that not delightful?’
She gave Helene a worried glance. She, too, had noticed his mind was still addled. She smiled down at Wilson, though. ‘Very delightful.’
Helene patted Wilson’s hand and pulled hers out of his grip. ‘I am leaving now. I will be back.’
He paid no heed, simply gazed at Madame Desmet.
Helene walked over to Mrs Jacobs whose smile could not have been wider. She inclined her head towards her patient and his visitor. ‘Isn’t that a pretty sight? Reminds me of me and my Hulbert.’ Her smile drooped for a moment but a poor replica of it returned when she faced Helene. ‘And you and your captain.’
Rhys walked over before Helene could correct her about Rhys. ‘I will leave, as well.’ He walked to the door.
‘Are you comfortable with having Madame Desmet stay?’ Helene asked Mrs Jacobs.
The woman laughed. ‘I think she is just the medicine he needs.’ She shooed Helene towards Rhys. ‘Do not worry over a thing. Enjoy this pretty day, you two.’
Mrs Jacobs closed the door behind them and Helene and Rhys stood in the dimly lit hallway, facing each other. The silence between them stretched to an unbearable length. What had happened to the days where they had much to say to the other?
She could not stand there another second. ‘I shall go to my room,’ she stated. She turned away from him and hurried down the hallway.
* * *
Rhys kept pace with her, searching for something to say, anything but what was in his heart—that he was so grateful she was alive, so thankful he had been there to pull her out of the path of the speeding carriage. What would have happened had he not been there? That was all he’d thought of since he’d held her close.
He could say none of that to her.
‘What did you think of Louise Desmet?’ he asked instead.
She looked surprised at his question or perhaps surprised that he spoke at all after he’d been silent for so long. ‘They seem devoted to each other,’ she finally said.
He agreed.
Rhys saw himself in Wilson, even though Wilson was so much older. How Wilson looked at his Louise? That was how Rhys once felt to be with Helene. Full of joy and relief. As if his world was finally complete.
Something else he could not tell Helene, not after Helene scraped him raw that day when he learned she would not marry him, and her father sent him away. He’d learned to bury that pain.
‘Are you not checking on your brother today?’ His tone turned disdainful.
‘I left him a note,’ she said.
Rhys decided not to tell her he’d dragged her brother out of yet another tavern the night before. Why worry her more?
They reached her floor. ‘No need to walk me to my room,’ she said. ‘I will bid you good day here.’
‘As you wish.’ He turned to leave her.
‘Rhys?’
He turned back to her.
‘Thank you for coming with me to find Madame Desmet. You were correct. It would have been difficult for me to find her alone.’ Her lovely face had a ghost of a smile. ‘And I am for ever in your debt for pulling me out of the way of the carriage.’ Her voice wobbled.
His carefully banked emotions threatened to spill over, but he kept his voice even. ‘I would have done so for anyone.’
She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, I suppose you would.’
She turned and walked down the hallway to her room. Rhys watched her until she turned the corner. He remained there for a moment not quite knowing what to do. Clearing his throat, he descended the stairs.
He had a sudden thirst for a very large tankard of beer.
Chapter Seven
David sat on horseback as he and William Lennox rode on a country lane past fields of barley and wheat, edged with hedgerows. The sun was high in the blue sky and the horse he rode was a fine one. What could be better?
William had lent David this fine horse. The mare belonged to William�
��s father, the Duke of Richmond. He was actually riding a horse owned by the Duke of Richmond. Wellington’s friend. It was almost like being in Wellington’s circle, was it not?
David’s morning had not begun on a high note. He’d woken with a ponderous headache from the previous night’s carousing, but it had completely gone away after his breakfast of eggs and beer. He wished he and William could ride like the wind! He was bursting with excitement.
‘So, this is one of the roads Wellington believes the French will use to reach Brussels?’ he asked, somewhat rhetorically.
‘As my father says,’ William responded in a weary tone. ‘One of three possible routes, but we have spoken of this before.’
William was in a bit of ill humour this day, but that was due to his eye injury, David believed. The injury might keep him out of the battle. What could be worse? David refused to give in to William’s blue devils, though. Nothing would ruin David’s good cheer.
‘I have, by the way, spoken to my mother,’ William went on. ‘You, your sister, and Captains Landon and Grantwell will all receive invitations to the ball.’
‘I am very grateful!’ David cried. ‘And it certainly will impress Rhys and his friend that I have procured invitations for them!’
‘I have procured the invitations, David,’ William said testily.
David gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Of course you have! I meant only that I am lucky enough to be your friend.’ The ball was another event David greatly anticipated. The Duke of Wellington, the Prince of Orange, and all sorts of important people would be there.
David would not miss a moment of it. ‘Perhaps I can come early to the ball. Help you out in some way.’ It would not hurt to be considered a close friend of the family. He might even get to meet Wellington.
William glanced over at him. ‘Do you not have to escort your sister?’
Helene. What a trial it was to have her chase after him here, thinking she could bully him into doing as she wished.
‘I’ll get Rhys to escort her. He was our vicar’s son and they used to be chums. He won’t mind.’ David had no intention of being tied to Helene’s apron strings at a ball where every important military officer was to be present. He planned to avoid her at all costs, like he’d done that morning, escaping before she came looking for him.
