by Diane Gaston
She turned tables on the gentlemen. ‘How long have you known each other?’ she asked.
‘Since right before the second battalion landed in Portugal,’ Grantwell said.
‘The second battalion?’ she asked.
Grantwell answered, ‘Second battalion of the East Essex—the 44th Regiment of Foot.’
At least she now knew what regiment was Rhys’s.
‘When did the battalion land in Portugal?’ she asked.
Grantwell turned to Rhys. ‘What has it been? Five years?’
‘Five years,’ Rhys repeated.
Right after leaving her.
‘A lot happened in those five years,’ Rhys commented.
A bleak look crossed Grantwell’s face.
Rhys spoke up quickly. ‘But you won’t wish to know any of that, Helene. War is not for teatime conversation with a lady.’
She had a pretty good idea of what some of it was like. She’d read every account of every battle she could find.
Grantwell seemed to force a smile. ‘We should make a plan to give you a tour of the city.’
Rhys glowered at this suggestion.
‘How nice of you to offer, Captain,’ she said in her best drawing room voice.
Mrs Jacobs appeared at the dining room doorway, saying something to the servant. Helene seized the chance to get away from Rhys for the moment.
‘I see Wilson’s nurse. I need to speak to her.’ The two officers rose when she stood.
Mrs Jacobs grinned when Helene approached her. ‘Now you have a second admirer, mademoiselle? Your Captain will be jealous, no?’
Mrs Jacobs was almost as exasperating as Rhys. ‘He is not my Captain,’ she protested.
The woman gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Ah, you have had a spat, have you? Never you mind, I am sure all will be well by the morrow.’
Helene shook her head. There was no talking sense to this woman. ‘How is Wilson?’ she asked instead.
The nurse shrugged. ‘Sometimes he seems to rest peacefully. Sometimes he does not.’
Helene’s spirits dipped. ‘No better? That is not good.’
The nurse patted her arm. ‘He is a mite better. I think he rests easier with Louise sitting at his side.’
Louise? Apparently Mrs Jacobs and Madame Desmet were getting along well. ‘She is still there?’
Mrs Jacobs threw up her hands. ‘I cannot convince her to leave. But she is a great help and I am able to come to order food without worrying about leaving Mr Wilson alone.’
‘Order whatever you need,’ Helene told her. ‘A meal for you and Madame Desmet, as well.’
‘Merci, mademoiselle,’ she responded. ‘Louise promised to go home to rest after she feeds Mr Wilson some dinner.’
‘Is he eating?’ That would be a good sign.
The nurse shrugged. ‘Some broth. A few spoons of porridge.’
‘Please get word to me if his fever worsens,’ Helene told her. ‘But I will stop by before I retire.’
The nurse patted her hand again. ‘Now don’t you worry, mademoiselle. You go back to your Captain and the other fellow. Make him jealous—’ She laughed as she walked away. ‘That will do nicely!’
Helene returned to the table. Rhys watched her approach. How surprised Mrs Jacobs would be if she knew how things really stood between her and Rhys.
‘Helene!’ a voice sounded from behind her.
She turned to see David hurrying her way.
He was nearly breathless when he caught up to her. ‘The hall servant stopped me! Insisted I speak with you. What the devil is so important?’
Chapter Eight
It was about time David showed up, Rhys thought. Better he see to his sister than spend another night in the taverns.
David stood with her a little distance from their table in the hotel’s dining room, but Rhys and Grant, still drinking their tea, could hear every word of their conversation.
‘Tell me what you want to say and let me be on my way.’ David looked about to bolt at any moment.
‘On your way?’ Helene glared at her brother. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘To my room, if you must know,’ he retorted. ‘To change for dinner.’
‘I want you to have dinner with me,’ Helene said. ‘I want to talk to you—’
David raised his hands in frustration. ‘Lecture me, you mean. I do not want to hear it!’
Rhys was beginning to think David needed a good paddling, like a naughty schoolboy. He was certainly acting like one.
‘Talk to you,’ she repeated. ‘Not lecture. There are things you should know—’
‘I know already!’ David cried. ‘Wilson is sick. Nothing I can do about that! You brought him here. I did not want either of you to come. I’m a man now and I can take care of myself!’
Rhys started to rise.
‘Oh?’ Her brows rose. ‘Did not Rhys have to carry you out of a tavern two nights ago?’
He relaxed in his chair. Helene was holding her own.
‘I could have walked!’ David raised his voice and other people in the dining room looked his way.
Helene leaned towards him and spoke in a low, firm voice. ‘You passed out, David.’
And David had nearly done the same the next night, Rhys wanted to add.
The boy looked momentarily chagrined, but he soon raised his chin. ‘That’s all well and good, but no matter, I cannot dine with you tonight. I am expected at the Duke of Richmond’s for dinner. I’m to dine with the Duke.’
More likely with the Duke’s son, the other young fellow Rhys and Grant had met.
‘You could send your regrets,’ Rhys called over from his seat at the table.
David glanced over at Rhys and Grant, seeming to notice them for the first time. He greeted them cheerfully. ‘Oh, hello, Rhys. Grantwell.’ He sobered again and gave Rhys an imploring look. ‘I cannot send regrets for dinner, Rhys! I am to dine with the Duke!’
‘Oh, go off to your duke.’ Helene waved an impatient hand at him. ‘But tell me now when you will meet with me. I am tired of chasing after you!’
‘Then don’t!’ David spun on his heel and started to walk away. He stopped and turned back, speaking loud enough for others to hear. ‘By the way, you will receive invitations to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball two days hence. They will be delivered to the hotel. I arranged it for you!’ He puffed up with self-importance before dashing away.
Helene made a frustrated sound and returned to her seat, a thunderous look on her face.
Rhys rose. Helene probably would not want him to interfere, but he didn’t care. He’d had enough of David.
He caught up to David in the hall. ‘David!’
The boy turned to face him.
Rhys leaned down to him. ‘You are behaving like an insufferable brat to your sister. Stop it at once.’
David threw up his hands. ‘You know how she is, Rhys. So bossy. Been like that since I was a child.’
‘You are acting like a child now,’ Rhys pointed out.
‘I am not!’ he whined. ‘Besides, you and Helene always gang up on me!’
Rhys spoke in a firm voice. ‘You owe your sister some courtesy, whether you wish to or not. A gentleman treats a lady with respect. A man faces unpleasantries like a man.’
David released a breath. ‘You do understand. She can be damned unpleasant!’ He backed away. ‘I must hurry. I cannot be late!’
Before Rhys could say another word, David took off and bounded up the stairs.
Rhys returned to the dining room.
He flopped into his chair, disgusted with David and bracing for Helene to upbraid him for interfering. ‘I cannot talk any sense into him.’
‘Thank you for trying, Rhys,’ Helene said in a low voice.
He’d not been prepa
red for her gratitude. ‘Least I could do,’ he mumbled.
Their table lapsed into silence, each of them covering the quiet by sipping tea or eating biscuits.
Grant eyed both Helene and him. Rhys could almost feel the questions brimming inside his friend. He supposed he must tell Grant something, but if Grant had never encountered Helene or David, Rhys would not have mentioned a word about them.
Predictably it was Grant who broke the silence. ‘Lady Helene, am I correct in assuming that you now have no dinner plans?’
‘No, I do not,’ she said.
Grant turned to Rhys. ‘Let us take Lady Helene to the Grand Place, since she has seen so little of Brussels. After that we could go to the Roi de Pologne for dinner. The restaurant on the Rue de la Montagne, remember it? We have no other plans.’
It was not good at all for Rhys to spend that much time with Helene, to see her face enchanted by new sights, like the Parc and the cathedral. But somehow he also could not bear the idea of leaving her alone, not after the altercation with the Dutch soldiers and David refusing to deal with her.
Rhys turned to her. ‘Would you like that, Helene?’
She stared at him a long time before answering. ‘That would be lovely.’ She turned to Grant. ‘But I would like to freshen up a bit first, if you meant to leave right away.’
Grant smiled. In satisfaction, Rhys thought. ‘Take whatever time you require.’
She finished her tea and stood. Rhys and Grant rose, as well, and Rhys took a step forward.
She lifted a hand. ‘No need to take me to my room, Rhys. I am perfectly capable of making it on my own.’
Grant spoke. ‘We will wait here for you, then.’
She turned in a swirl of skirts and walked away. Both he and Grant watched her until she disappeared through the doorway.
Grant immediately signalled for the servant. ‘Some beer, if you please.’ He glanced at Rhys. ‘Beer, Rhys?’
‘Yes,’ Rhys agreed.
Afternoon beer had been a lot more typical of their stay in Brussels than afternoon tea.
Finally Grant fixed his gaze on Rhys and Rhys knew what was coming. ‘Well, are you going to tell me about her?’
Rhys stared back. ‘As I said before, she’s an earl’s daughter and I’m the son of the Earl’s vicar.’
Could Grant not guess? Grant had been through a devastating heartbreak. A true betrayal. He never spoke about it. Could he not figure it out that Rhys did not wish to speak of his relationship with Helene?
But he supposed he owed Grant some explanation. ‘We were playmates as children, but things changed as we grew up.’
Let Grant read between the lines as Rhys had done when Grant had been betrayed.
Grant took another gulp of his beer, but perused Rhys at the same time. Finally, in a more subdued tone he asked, ‘Should I not have made the invitation to dinner?’
Rhys lifted his tankard to his lips. He put it down again. ‘After her brother refused to dine with her, we could not simply leave her, could we?’
Grant’s eyes filled with amusement. ‘No. We could not.’
* * *
Once in her room, Helene paced as restlessly as she had before escaping to the Parc. This time it was David who plagued her. What was she to do about him?
Why he was acting so irresponsibly? Why was he denying his title? Their parents were not long in their graves. Was he denying his grief for them, too?
She groaned in frustration.
She walked over to the dressing table and leaned down to look in the mirror. Goodness! She looked wild. Her face was flushed and her hair was actively escaping its pins. Her dress was not damaged, but it definitely looked jostled.
More than jostled.
She closed her eyes and remembered the Dutch soldier seizing the front of her dress. She’d used his momentum to swing around so that he lost his grip and tumbled on to the ground. How many times had Rhys made her practise that move? So many that even after all these years, she’d performed it by reflex. She was proud of how she fought off her attackers. And all Rhys had done was scold her! She’d wanted him to say, Well done! I knew you could do it! Rhys used to compliment her in that very way, with those very words.
After he left so quickly for the army, she’d hoped he would write to her. Or at least send some message through his parents. They denied he ever mentioned her. Had he not understood why she’d changed her mind about eloping with him?
She sat at the dressing table and peered in the mirror again. What a fright she must have appeared to him. She pulled the pins from her hair and brushed it smooth before twisting it back into a knot high on the back of her head and replacing the pins. She rose and washed her face at the basin on the dresser. There was no full-length mirror in the room, but she stepped back far enough to see most of herself in the dressing table mirror. She ought to change her dress, but she only had three with her and one of those was for travel. She straightened her dress instead and brushed it with the clothes brush, tidying it as best she could. She tidied her bonnet and shook out her shawl, draping it over her arm. She automatically picked up her gloves but stared at them. They needed mending.
She put them down again. She would not wear them. She’d need to remove them before eating anyway and who did she know in Brussels who might criticise her for not wearing gloves? Once Rhys would have scoffed at her for even worrying about it. Now she seemed no more to him than an unwanted duty.
‘You could have declined dinner, Rhys,’ she said aloud to no one but herself. ‘If you did not wish to be with me.’
She checked that her purse and handkerchief were still in the pocket of her dress and, key in hand, reached for the latch of the door, but stopped a moment, glancing around the room.
How glad she was that she would not have to spend her evening alone here. She was so grateful to Rhys’s friend Grantwell for rescuing her from that fate.
And grudgingly grateful to Rhys for not preventing it.
It would be a pleasure to see more of the city and to eat in a restaurant. She’d eaten in inns and taverns while travelling in England, but never a restaurant. It seemed a very French thing to do.
She hurried down the hallway, but when reaching the stairs, decided to check on Wilson now in case she was back at the hotel too late to stop by later. She would not stay long, knowing Captain Grantwell—and Rhys—were waiting for her.
She made her way up the stairs and down the hallways to Wilson’s room. Mrs Jacobs answered her knock.
‘Mademoiselle! What are you doing here?’ Mrs Jacobs peered out of the doorway. ‘Where is your handsome captain?’
Oh, dear. What would the nurse do with the information she would be spending the evening with Rhys?
‘He is waiting with his friend,’ she said.
Mrs Jacobs grinned. ‘The other handsome one!’
Helene walked past her into the small room.
Madame Desmet sat in the chair next to Wilson. ‘Bonjour, my lady.’
‘Madame Desmet, you are still here,’ she responded in a friendly tone. ‘How is he?’ she asked them both.
‘Calmer,’ Madame Desmet said.
‘Yes, much calmer,’ Mrs Jacobs agreed. ‘He sleeps, but we’ve been able to give him broth and tea and even some porridge when he is awake.’
Helene noticed that Mrs Jacobs had somehow procured another chair and small table, so the room was more crowded than ever. She walked closer to Wilson and Madame Desmet.
The woman’s brow furrowed. ‘I hope you do not mind me staying.’
‘Not at all.’ Helene glanced to the nurse. ‘That is, if Mrs Jacobs does not mind.’
‘Mind?’ Mrs Jacobs laughed. ‘She is good company and such a help.’
Madame Desmet gazed at Wilson. ‘I must be here,’ she said earnestly.
‘You should tell madem
oiselle your story.’ Mrs Jacobs said. She turned to Helene. ‘It was as I guessed. A love story.’
‘I should like to hear of it,’ Helene responded. More likely she was dying to know it.
‘We met years ago,’ Madame said. ‘Before the French came, as I told you.’
‘They fell in love,’ Mrs Jacobs explained helpfully.
‘And he offered to stay,’ Madame Desmet said. ‘But I was promised to another. It was impossible! We were so young. We could not see how we could be together.’
A familiar ache touched Helene’s heart. She and Rhys had been young, too, when—when—She could not even finish her thought.
Madame Desmet went on. ‘Then Samuel wrote that he was here in Brussels—’ Her voice cracked with emotion. ‘Well, you can imagine how I felt.’ She gazed down at the ill man. ‘I am a widow now, so I am free. I cannot lose Samuel again. I cannot!’
Helene leaned down and put her arm around the woman. ‘He must recover then.’ Tears stung her eyes and she desperately needed to be gone from there, away from the emotions Madame Desmet’s story aroused in her.
Mrs Jacobs actually came to her aid, firmly walking her to the door. ‘You run off now to your Captain! I expect he is pining for your return. And if he has not come up to snuff yet, keep him on his toes with the other officer.’ She playfully pushed Helene out the door.
Helene returned to the dining room where Rhys and Grantwell remained seated. This time there were tankards on the table in front of them, not teacups. Grantwell engaged in some animated discussion with Rhys and did not catch her entrance. Rhys saw her, though. His eyes never left her, but his expression remained stony.
Eventually his friend noticed her, too, and smiled. ‘Ah, you are back already.’
They both stood as she reached the table.
‘Do not say already, Captain,’ she responded. ‘I took a frightfully long time.’ She glanced at Rhys. ‘I stopped to check on Wilson.’
‘How is he?’ Rhys asked, though his expression did not change.
‘Sleeping mostly. But calmer, they said,’ she told them. ‘Madame Desmet is still with him.’
