by Diane Gaston
He refused to have Helene dampen his spirits. Even more than the ball, he was about to be part of the most exciting battle of the whole war. Napoleon versus Wellington! What could be more grand?
The road was empty for the moment, but David could just see some movement in the distance, too far to tell if it was a carriage or a wagon or someone on horseback.
His imagination flared. ‘Would it not be astonishing if we came upon the French marching on this very road at his very time!’
William responded, ‘If the French were this close, Wellington would know of it. He has exploring officers all over the Continent, you may depend upon it.’
‘I know.’ David sighed. ‘But it would be such a coup if you and I discovered the French advance and brought the intelligence to Wellington.’
‘At least I would have some role in the battle, then,’ William grumbled.
David was riding close enough to reach out and thump William on his shoulder. ‘Come now! Your eye will heal! You must be a part of it!’
They rode on, reaching the crest of the gently sloping hill. Below them a small village lay.
‘I wonder if there is a tavern in this village,’ David said. ‘We could stop for some beer. I am prodigiously fond of Belgian beer.’
As they neared the village they came upon a sign giving its name.
Mont Saint Jean.
* * *
Helene paced the hotel room. It was comfortable enough, spacious enough for a sitting area near the fire and a table for dining, but, in her restless state, the room seemed like a prison cell. She had nothing to do, none of the distractions of home, the minor tasks, the mending, meeting with the housekeeper, seeing that all ran smoothly. She did not even have a book to read.
She greatly needed distraction. From thinking about Rhys. No matter how she tried, her thoughts returned to him.
She stopped pacing and tightly closed her eyes, remembering how incredible it felt to have his arms encircle her and hold her tight when he rescued her from the speeding carriage. And how bereft when he just as quickly released her.
She clenched her fists and stifled a frustrated cry. She wanted to be gone from this place! She wanted to be home where there were endless chores to do.
She’d planned to be on the journey home by now, she, David and Wilson. She’d not even packed for more than a few days. But how long would it be before Wilson could be well enough to travel—that is, if his fever did not take a turn for the worse, like the fever had done for her father?
Wilson could still die from the fever.
Rhys could die in the battle.
Even David could die, if she did not succeed in keeping him from the battle.
She walked to the window, which faced the street in front of the hotel. Carriages rolled by, men rode on horseback, and all sorts of people dashed about as if life was proceeding normally. She wanted to scream a warning at them. All could be lost. In one day, in one moment, all could be lost.
Like that day her father told Rhys she would not marry him and sent him to join the army.
She groaned aloud.
It did her no good to dwell on that. Better to be busy at something. Anything.
She spun around and strode to the writing desk, removing paper, ink and a pen. She wrote a note, blew on it so the ink dried quickly and folded it. She picked up her bonnet, shawl and gloves and walked out the door and through the hallways and stairs to David’s room.
She knocked, not really expecting an answer. She slid the note under the door.
The note asked David to seek her out that day, that she needed to speak to him and hoped he would agree to dine with her that evening. She did not add that she hoped again to reason with him, to secure his agreement to leave as soon as Wilson was well and to promise not to put himself in harm’s way in the meantime. What more could she do?
She donned her hat and gloves and walked down the stairs to the hall, stopping by where the hall servant stood.
‘May I assist you, my lady?’ he asked.
‘Oui, merci,’ she responded. ‘If you see my brother, David Banes, would you tell him I wish to speak with him? I have also left him a note in his room.’
‘With pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed.
She left the hotel and took the route to the Parc she and Rhys had taken that morning. At home when she needed to clear her mind or settle her nerves, she’d take a walk, often returning to where she and Rhys had fished in the stream, picked berries or played knights and damsels in distress, although she’d sometimes complained of always having to be the damsel.
Even with those bittersweet memories, a brisk walk always restored her and today she greatly needed her spirits restored.
She passed through the iron gate and entered the Parc, deciding to first walk its perimeter. The Parc was so large that a stroll around it might be all she needed. If not, she could crisscross all the other paths and see how many fountains and statues she could discover.
It was mid-afternoon and the Parc was every bit as crowded as it had been earlier when she and Rhys had passed through. The perimeter, though, was somewhat sparse of promenaders. That suited Helene as she could examine the various trees and plants at her leisure. Those people she did pass, men in uniform mostly, gave her curious looks that made her uncomfortable in ways she’d never felt walking through the busy streets of London. Of course, she’d mostly had a maid or footman with her on those occasions.
She reached the far end of the Parc where she could see the spout of a fountain rise high in the middle of a circular pool. She walked closer to the fountain where groups of people sat on the grass nearby and others rested at the water’s edge, dipping their fingers in the water. The sight of others enjoying the park did not delight her as much as it had that morning. A wave of loneliness washed over her, not unfamiliar. Loneliness often struck her, ever since Rhys had left.
A woman’s laugh caught her attention. An elegantly dressed young lady stood flirting with two officers in blue coats; an older woman—her mother, maid or chaperon—stood nearby. The young lady seemed to delight in her suitors. Helene remembered many a ride through Hyde Park when she’d pretended to enjoy a suitor’s company when all the time thinking the gentleman was not Rhys.
Better to be alone than pretend you are not.
Her gaze was caught by two red-coated uniforms, this time conversing with three women too gaily dressed for midday. One of the men stepped into better view and she gasped.
It was Rhys.
She quickly whirled away, hoping he had not seen her.
Such a simple thing to see him conversing with other people. Why should it pain her so? Of course he had a life separate from her, a life that included other women. Logically she’d always known this to be true; she even told herself he would marry someone else some day. Still, seeing him with other women made that knowledge painfully real.
Helene headed back to the perimeter path, passing three soldiers who talked loud enough for her to hear, in the language she’d heard so many people speak on her trip from Ghent. Flemish or Dutch, she did not know which. These men’s uniforms were a dark green with yellow-striped epaulets on their shoulders. They had a rougher look about them than some of the soldiers she’d passed by. She quickened her step to get away from them.
* * *
Rhys was not surprised to have encountered Grant in the Parc, surrounded by three townswomen of questionable reputation. Grant had a way of attracting women. He was charming to them, but Rhys knew Grant guarded his heart even more strictly than Rhys did. It made Grant a challenge few women could resist.
Bored by their conversation, Rhys had been about to excuse himself when he glimpsed a woman in a blue dress standing alone.
Helene.
‘What the devil?’ he said aloud.
She must have seen him, because she turned and fled. He wa
tched her disappear on to the outer path. Debating with himself whether to follow her, he spied three Dutch soldiers nudge each other and head for the same path.
‘Damned woman!’ Rhys took off after them.
‘What?’ called Grant after him.
Rhys heard Grant behind him, the protests of his three admirers ringing in Rhys’s ears. When Rhys reached the outer path, he slid to a stop. No one was in sight and he was unsure in which direction she’d gone.
Grant caught up to him. ‘What is it?’
Rhys lifted a hand. ‘Shh!’
He heard a man’s cry and he sprinted in that direction. Around the corner one of the Dutch soldiers fell on to the path from a space between the trees. He rose to his feet and brushed himself off but lifted his head to see Rhys and Grant advancing on him. The soldier shouted something and took off.
When Rhys reached the opening in the trees, he found Helene wielding a fallen tree branch, thick as a club, swinging full force at one of the soldiers. There was a loud crack when the branch hit the man in the chest. He tumbled back in pain. The other soldier grabbed for her, but she recovered quickly enough to bring the stick up right between the man’s legs. His scream was as high as a girl’s. He clutched his privates. The first man scrambled to his feet, fury on his face. He came at her again.
‘Stop!’ Rhys bellowed. ‘Stop!’
The two soldiers gaped at him.
‘Officieren!’ one cried and the two took off running through the trees.
Helene still held the stick, panting and wild-eyed. Her shawl was caught on a nearby bush and her bonnet was dangling from her neck. When she saw it was Rhys, her shoulders slumped and she let her weapon fall.
‘What the devil are you doing in this park alone?’ Rhys snapped at her.
She straightened, sparks still flashing from her eyes. ‘Fighting off attackers, obviously.’ She untied the strings of her bonnet and placed it back on her head.
Grant walked up to stand beside him. ‘Oh, the lady of the tavern and this morning’s promenade.’ He looked at Rhys expectantly.
Rhys extended his arm towards Grant. ‘Lady Helene, may I present Captain Grantwell.’ He turned to Helene. ‘Lady Helene Banes.’
‘Banes?’ Recognition dawned on Grant’s face. ‘David Banes’s sister! I have heard almost nothing about you.’ He bowed.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Captain.’ Her words sounded automatic. ‘We saw you this morning in the Parc.’
Grant grinned. ‘I have not been here all day, I assure you, although it must appear so.’ He gave her an appraising look. ‘I must confess, I am all admiration, Lady Helene. I hope my soldiers fight half as well as you.’
‘I had a good teacher.’ She glanced at Rhys and walked over to retrieve her shawl.
Rhys seized her arm. ‘What possessed you to walk in this Parc alone? Do you not have any sense at all?’
She shrugged him off. ‘Enough sense to arm myself when the need arose.’ She looked at him with defiance. ‘The Parc was filled with people. As no one saw fit to warn me otherwise, I suspected no danger.’
He glared at her. ‘Did you fail to notice the whole city teeming with soldiers? Idle ones at that?’ In a secluded spot like this one, who would see her in danger or heed her cries?
She brushed off her skirt and pulled up her gloves, one ripped, most likely from rubbing across the branch. ‘Well. I thank you, Rhys, for coming again to my aid, unnecessary though it was.’ She turned to Grant. ‘Thank you, as well, Captain Grantwell. I will continue my walk now.’ She glanced towards the interior of the Parc. ‘In the more public areas where I am certain I shall be perfectly safe.’
‘You will go back to the hotel,’ Rhys ordered. ‘I will take you there.’ He reached for her arm again.
She backed away. ‘I am not returning to the hotel. The day is too fine to be cooped up inside.’
‘I have an idea,’ Grant said cheerfully. ‘We can all walk together. I would greatly enjoy your company, Lady Helene, if you will permit me?’
She pressed her lips together before answering, ‘Very well.’
It rankled that she so easily accepted Grant’s invitation but refused to heed his order.
She also accepted Grant’s arm.
Rhys followed a step behind them as they took a path leading back to the fountain and the interior of the Parc. While Grant was acting his charming self, Rhys was regretting his outburst.
‘So, tell me, Lady Helene,’ Rhys heard Grant say. ‘How do you know my friend Rhys?’
She darted a glance back at him. ‘As children. We grew up together.’
‘Indeed?’ Grant responded, also glancing back at Rhys.
‘Yes,’ Rhys piped up. ‘I was the vicar’s son. She was the Earl’s daughter. You may guess how it was.’
Grant’s brows rose. ‘I confess I cannot at all guess how it was.’ He looked from one to the other.
Rhys assumed his own expression was grim. Helene’s, on the other hand, was in high colour, her eyes bright, as if her encounter with the Dutch soldiers had awakened something primal in her. She quite took his breath away.
Grant, ever attuned to unspoken emotions, changed the subject. He began commenting on the people they saw, pointing out to Helene some noteworthy figures. An aide-de-camp of the Prince of Orange. Their regimental Colonel, General John Howard, who acknowledged them with a nod. A very pregnant Lady Frances Webster, rumoured to be the Duke of Wellington’s latest paramour, but not the father of her unborn child. Rhys followed silently.
Eventually Rhys noticed Helene falter. ‘She is fatigued,’ he said. ‘Enough walking.’
Grant turned to her. ‘Are you fatigued, my lady?’
She glared back at Rhys. ‘I am not fatigued.’ She turned her attention to Grant. ‘I confess I am a little thirsty, though.’
Grant smiled. ‘Let us return to the hotel and have some tea.’
Tea? He and Grant had been headed for the taverns.
‘A lovely idea,’ agreed Helene.
* * *
They left the Parc through the same gate Helene had entered, the one Rhys led her to that morning. Rhys’s friend Grantwell held her elbow protectively as they descended the stairs leading to the Hotêl de Flandre. Her heart was still pounding from what nearly happened to her. How could Rhys think she would be fatigued? She felt as if she could run straight to Antwerp.
She was proud of fighting off those horrible men. She’d heard them behind her and she’d searched for a weapon. If she had not found one, she’d have done the job with kicks and fists. Just as Rhys had taught her.
As they entered the hotel, Rhys and Grantwell removed their shakos. They made an impressive pair, these two tall British officers walking at her side. She’d noticed the admiring glances from other women in the Parc. They’d even passed by the three women with whom Rhys and his friend had been conversing. Three sets of eyes shot daggers at her.
The hall servant greeted them as they walked through the hotel.
Helene stopped to speak with him. ‘Have you seen my brother, by any chance?’
The man looked regretful. ‘No, my lady. But I have not forgotten your message.’
‘I will be in the dining room, if he happens by,’ she said.
‘Very good, my lady.’
Rhys spoke up. ‘You have not seen David today?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I left him a note. I’ve asked him to have dinner with me.’
He returned a sceptical look.
She so needed to have a very frank talk with David. He was the Earl of Yarford now and it was time he accepted the role. He had a duty to keep himself safe. He needed to be home.
They entered the dining room where there were a few other people lounging at other tables. Helene had eaten nothing since the bread and cheese in Wilson’s room that morning. She wa
s glad Captain Grantwell suggested tea.
Rhys did not seem at all happy about it, though. She looked into his unsmiling face. ‘Rhys, you can leave if staying is so unpleasant.’
He frowned at her. ‘Who said it was unpleasant?’
‘Shall we sit?’ Grantwell asked.
They found a table and ordered their tea. Helene removed her gloves. Both needed washing and one might be too far gone to mend.
Captain Grantwell turned to her. ‘And how do you like Brussels, Lady Helene?’
She glanced at Rhys who was seated to her left and seemingly paying no attention to her. ‘From what I have seen, its buildings are magnificent.’
‘From what you have seen?’ Grantwell repeated. ‘Have you not had a proper tour of the city?’
‘No.’ She’d had Wilson to tend to and David to worry about. ‘I’ve not had the time.’
She could sense the Captain’s curiosity about her—about her and Rhys—but it seemed nothing more than that. He was not flirting with her, of that she was certain. She’d had enough experience during her Seasons in London to tell if a man was trying to gain her interest.
‘No time?’ She noticed Grantwell dart a quick look at Rhys.
Helene explained. ‘The manservant who accompanied me here became ill. I have been seeing he gets the care he needs.’ She added. ‘With Rhys’s help.’
‘I’ve known the man since I was a boy,’ Rhys said. ‘He was always good to me.’
‘And how is your servant?’ Grantwell seemed genuinely concerned.
‘Somewhat better,’ Helene said.
The servant brought the tea and Helene poured. She asked Grantwell how he took his tea. His brows rose when she fixed Rhys’s tea without asking. She knew just how much milk, how much sugar. The servant also brought a plate of biscuits which she passed to the men.
She feared Grantwell’s questions about her—and Rhys—would continue. Certainly Rhys would no more want his friend to continue in that vein than she did.
