An Officer, Not a Gentleman: A Traditional Regency Romance (Brethren in Arms Book 3)

by Elizabeth Johns

  “By God, I hope not. We will miss having you to help us. My door is always open if you have need of me.”

  Wellington took his leave, and Tobin drifted in and out of his senses. Not many minutes later, however, there was more commotion to drag him from the fog.

  “Waverley. What are you doing back here?” Captain Elliot asked, his voice lifting in surprise.

  “We had not yet crossed the Channel when I heard the news. I came back to see if I was needed.”

  “By Jove, yes. I must follow on to Paris, and I was loath to send Thackeray and O’Neill back to England on a packet in their condition, and Colin’s parents would want his body returned.”

  The room was silent for some moments, until the sound of a nose blowing into a handkerchief cut through the heavy stillness.

  “I am sorry. I assumed you had been told.”

  “I should not be surprised, but it never grows any easier to hear such tidings,” the Duke said. He was clearly still deeply affected by the news.

  “No,” Captain Elliot agreed solemnly.

  “How is Tobin?”

  “He has been asleep since yesterday. I am hoping he will awake soon. Instead of having his injuries attended to, he exhausted himself to recover Colin and General Murphy.”

  “That sounds like Tobin,” Waverley replied.

  “How soon can they be moved?”

  “The doctor said he saw no harm in transporting them now. I was hoping Lieutenant O’Neill would awaken first,” Miss Murphy said.

  “Perhaps he still will, Bridget.” That was Lady Amelia’s voice.

  Tobin was trying to wake up. Truly he was. Bridget. Yes. Mo álainn. Could she not hear him?

  “He is growing restless. Perhaps we should let him rest,” she said.

  “We can discuss our plans in another room,” Waverley answered.

  No! Do not leave! I am trying to talk to you.

  “Shh. Calm yourself,” she said in a soothing voice. “I want you to wake up, but calmly.” A cool cloth greeted his forehead, followed by a glass of water being pressed to his lips, which he drank greedily. He was so very thirsty.

  “That gives me hope. It is the first time you have drunk more than a sip.”

  He would do that and much more if she wanted him to. Just don’t leave me. The mattress sagged as she sat on the side of the bed, and he was filled with her warmth and scent of gardenias.

  “I wish you were awake to talk to. You were a good listener, and I do not know what to do.”

  He was trying. Why could he not wake up? He could hear her.

  “You see, I think I should take Father and Patrick back to Ireland.” She inhaled a ragged breath. “I was hoping you would go with me.” Her throat sounded thick with tears. “I do not want to go alone.”

  I would go anywhere for you.

  “I know it is scandalous to wish it or ask it of you. I know you would feel obligated to protect me. And now the Duke has come to take you home. I should let you go.”

  Home. He had no home.

  “And I cannot take you with me when you are unconscious. I have no right to you, Tobin. I wish we had had more time together before the war.” She uttered a harsh laugh. “It is how life seems to work, though. You find happiness within reach only to have it snatched out of your grasp.”

  Tobin.

  A light knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

  “Doctor Wheeler. How are you today?” she asked, rising from the bed. Tobin was not happy about her leaving his side. He tried to reach for her, but his hands would not cooperate.

  “There have been too many losses, lass, for my peace of mind. How is the patient today? I was informed he will be leaving tomorrow, along with Lord Thackeray.”

  And Bridget. He could not leave her.

  “I thought he was trying to wake up, a few minutes ago. He grew agitated, but settled again after some water and the application of cool cloths.”

  Tobin felt large hands examining him. They were not soothing like hers. The doctor was unwinding his bandages and causing unnecessary pain. Tobin groaned.

  “He is responding to pain. That is good,” the evil man said. “These wounds look to be healing well.”

  Suddenly, the man’s hands were prying his eyes open, and Tobin wished his body would cooperate. He could not see anything, but a bright sensation sent a fiery pain throughout his head. He wished the man to the divil.

  “Perhaps, when the swelling on his brain goes down, he will wake up. He was not rendered unconscious from the blast itself.”

  “If only it would be today,” Miss Murphy added.

  “He will recover in his own time—or not. You know how it is.”

  She sighed. “I do.”

  “I wish you the best of good wishes, Miss Murphy.”

  “Perhaps we will meet again, sir. I do hope so.”

  Footsteps receded from the room, and Tobin felt a hand stroking back the hair on his forehead. He wanted to purr like a cat.

  “What am I to do?” she asked in a desperate voice. “I am afraid to go alone. Afraid I will never see you again. I suppose I do not have a choice, do I?” She took his hand in hers and he felt her lips kiss the back of his hand before she set it back on the bed and walked away.

  He was going to have to manage to wake up soon, but the pain in his head was too much for now, and he slipped back into oblivion.

  Tobin could not wake. He knew he was in the thick of a battle, for the stench was unmistakable—stagnant blood, excrement, smoke… he had to hurry. The men were giving up, but help was coming. He had to tell them as quickly as possible. He urged Trojan forward, searching for the next courier. Suddenly, the ground shook beneath him and he was flying through the air. The muddy ground softened the blow, but not enough. The wind was knocked out of his lungs and he lay still, struggling to breathe and make sense of where he was. As he slowly came to, he realized something was weighting him down. He forced his eyes open to see the face of Captain Murphy not far from his own. Good God, they had been hit.

  Tobin struggled to move, but Murphy was dead weight. Panic set in as he realized he was trapped and his friend lay dead on top of him. Breaking out in a cold sweat, he gasped for air, but he could not breathe and he could not move. He opened his mouth to cry for help, but no sound came out. He could not wake up. He would die here. Would they bury him alive? Again, he opened his mouth to scream, “I’m alive!” But no one could hear him.

  Grief was a strange thing. Bridget suddenly felt she needed to escape, as though the walls were closing in on her. She ran down the stairs and then pulled up short in the entrance hall, not even certain there was a horse she could ride.

  Captain Elliot was standing just inside the small saloon, speaking with one of the men.

  “Miss Murphy? Is something wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Yes. My apologies, sir. Yes, I need to go out. Is there a horse I may ride?”

  “As far as I know, your horses are still here. Where are you going? Would you like for me to have Amelia accompany you?” He looked worried.

  “No, but thank you. I need to be alone for a while.”

  Captain Elliot nodded. He understood, and the last thing she cared about at the moment was propriety.

  She would not be requiring her father’s and brother’s horses any more, would she? Patrick’s favourite horse had died with him, she’d been told. Swallowing hard, she went to the mews and saddled her mare. In the panic before the battle, people had been paying outrageous sums for horses or even stealing them in order to flee the area. By some remarkable circumstance, theirs had been kept safe.

  Bridget mounted and headed south with no intentional direction, heedless of possible danger from looters or French deserters. Perhaps, subconsciously, she had an unrecognized urge to see where her father and brother had died. A measure of peace might then be hers.

  The Soignes Forest was calm and quiet with a slight breeze rustling through the canopy of trees. Th
ankfully, there was no sign of the dead and wounded littering the road today.

  Bridget continued at a sedate trot, taking in all that was around her. As she reached the edge of the valley where the battle had taken place, she inhaled sharply as a rush of feeling came over her. It was a strange sensation of troubled spirits and she felt overwhelmed. She stopped and listened, closing her eyes the better to hear instead of fighting the sensation. After earlier battles, she had occasionally thought she had seen or heard spirits, but there had been nothing like this. The howling and moaning of death and destruction; the smell of mud and life’s blood pouring out the loss of innocence… it was so real she could see it, smell it, taste it. She opened her eyes abruptly to make it stop. What she saw then were soldiers digging and bodies being piled into mass graves, her father’s men likely included. She turned away to compose herself. She had seen it before, but it did not stop the pain.

  Although it was not her duty to perform, Bridget decided she would write to each family or visit them when she returned home. It was the least she could do, and what her father always did. With a little nod of determination, she rode on.

  First, she came to a farm house. This must be La Haye Sainte, where her father and Captain Smith had fallen. She sat atop her horse on the crest overlooking the valley, which was littered with debris and the things that would not be worth money to the looters. All that was valuable was long gone, but there was still enough to attest to the atrocity of the loss of life sustained. God, let it be worth it, she whispered. She could envision it: her father’s brave infantrymen formed in a square as the French cavalry charged at them.

  A tear rolled down her cheek as she manoeuvred the horse down and around the farm house. When she reached the east side, something inside her made her stop and dismount. She walked around, looking at the ground and guessing where they must have died. Pieces of their red wool uniforms, bits of canteen and sword handles remained, dotted among craters in the ground left by cannon balls… Bridget knelt down and picked up a handle which held her family crest.

  “Oh, Papa!” she cried, unable to abate the tears as they fell. She stood there for some time, accepting that her father’s spirit had left him here. It gave her a small measure of peace as she turned and walked her mare towards the Château Hougoumont. It had been near there that Patrick and Tobin had met their fate. She was unable to find the precise spot where they had been hurt, but she sat near a hole in the ground where a cannon had left its mark. It mattered less because she had been able to say goodbye to Patrick and be with him when he breathed his last. She had his personal effects to keep. For some while she sat still, reconciling herself before standing again to leave. Taking one last look over the valley that had taken her family, she uttered a prayer for their souls’ journey to the afterlife, knowing they knew no pain in Heaven. “Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Patrick.”

  She found a place to remount her mare and did not look back again, unseeing, through a shower of tears, for most of her return journey to Brussels. It had been necessary to go—she would have always wondered otherwise, she knew, as she clutched the handle belonging to her father’s sword tight in her hand.

  Early the next morning, carriages and wagons arrived to transport all those being treated in the two houses. Those who were well enough would go on with their regiments or on packets back to England, while a few would be placed in hospitals in Brussels. Lady Amelia and Captain Elliot were to go with Wellington on to Paris, and the two houses would be closed. It felt so very final.

  Bridget looked out of the window and saw three plain coffins being loaded into a wagon. Bridget still could not believe they were gone. It felt as though they had just not returned from the battle.

  “Bridget?” Lady Amelia asked. Bridget turned towards the voice.

  “I came to take my leave of you. Will you write to me once you are settled?”

  Settled seemed such a foreign word. She could not remember a time when such a word had applied to her.

  “Of course. I do not know where that will be.”

  “I do not like you going alone. Waverley intends to take you with him and make arrangements for you. The Duchess and baby are waiting in Ostend with the boat.”

  Bridget was a bit stunned. The news was unexpected. “That is very kind of him, but I do not wish to cause him trouble.”

  “He insists, and so do I, otherwise I would be going with you. Perhaps he does so because he wants your help with Tobin and Thackeray,” Amelia added with a twinkle in her eye, though Bridget knew she was trying to make her feel more comfortable.

  “That is probably the case,” she agreed.

  It was also a huge relief to Bridget. She had travelled alone before, of course, but she had never truly been alone in the world. She had no one now.

  Amelia held out her arms and Bridget went into them. They had become friends without many words, but would feel close forever with what they had shared. Most ladies would never understand.

  Bridget clung harder than she should have done, but when Amelia stepped back, she smiled. “I will see you again soon. I promise. If you ever need any little thing, you may always ask me—or Meg.”

  “Thank you. Hopefully you will see no more battles.”

  “I pray not,” she said before she left the room. Bridget listened to her boots click across the entrance hall and descend the front steps. Looking out of the window, she saw Captain Elliot and Amelia climb into the carriage and roll away down the street. How she wished things were different and she was going to Paris with them! A tear fell down her cheek and she wiped it away. She would have plenty of time for sorrow later. Today she must help everyone on their way and finish packing her belongings.

  The Duke and Captain Elliott had gone to great lengths to arrange things so quickly. Bridget barely had time to check every patient one last time, to make certain they were ready to be transported, before they were all loaded into carriages and leaving her.

  Almost before she turned around, Lord Thackeray was being carried downstairs on a makeshift stretcher by two hefty footmen, who must have come with the Duke. Thackeray still looked feverish and Bridget dreaded the carriage ride with him. It would be difficult to keep him, and Tobin, comfortable all the way to the coast.

  Each man was to be placed across a bench seat. Bridget looked at Waverley, wondering how he proposed to fit the two of them inside as well. He was probably going to ride.

  “Shall I ride on the floor?” she asked, attempting a little humour and yet also a little frightened. “I have endured worse.”

  “Either that, or we each hold one of their heads—or feet—in our laps,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm. “I hope you will not mind my company over that of your maid. We will collect Meg in Ostend for the voyage to England.”

  “I am most grateful for your assistance, sir.” She was also surprised he would be riding with them, if truth be told.

  “Would you prefer Thackeray or Tobin?” he asked.

  “I’ll take the pretty lady, ye daft duke,” Tobin answered.

  Bridget had never been so happy to hear Irish brogue in her life. Her eyes turned to meet a pair of green ones, as their owner came down the steps with the assistance of the footmen. “About time, ye leathcheann mór,” she answered back with a strong lilt.

  Chapter 8

  Tobin started awake to the presence of two burly, uniformed men—one grabbing his legs, and one his arms. He began to kick and flail, fighting out of instinct. The enemy would not take him alive.

  “Sir! Stop fighting!” one said.

  “He must think we are the Frogs,” another reasoned.

  “We mean you no harm, sir. We ’ave come to take you home,” one explained.

  “Home?” He settled for a moment. Fighting hurt his head.

  “Aye. The Duke is here, and Miss Murphy, with a carriage to take you to a ship.”

  Tobin closed his eyes. I’m awake! I’m awake, he rejoiced to himself.

  “Can we take you now?
Without you fighting, like?”

  “I need to wash and dress.”

  The two footmen looked at each other and shrugged. “His trunk is right there. I don’t as see why not,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. “As long as you hurry, sir. We can fetch his lordship and come back for you.”

  Tobin nodded. “I can be quick.”

  They left him alone and he sighed deeply. Thank God. He felt weak, and he ached like the devil, but he was alive and Waverley had come to take him home.

  He stood up slowly, his legs shaking, and a flush spread over him. How long had he been lying there? He remembered hearing voices and trying to wake up, but how long had it been? He looked in the glass and his beard told him it had been days. He splashed cold water from the basin on his face and washed quickly. Even that exertion made him feel close to passing out, but it felt good to be clean. Someone must have taken good care of him, though, because he could have smelled much worse.

  Tobin rested a moment on a chair before he could summon the effort to get his clothes from the trunk. He lifted the lid to find his uniform laundered and folded neatly on top. He looked at it, noticing that the tears from the shrapnel had been patched and carefully mended. His throat tightened at the memory. He did not want to wear it again, but knew he must. Dressing carefully, he then sat back on the chair to wait, leaning his head against the cushion and closing his eyes against his body’s revolt at movement. He desperately wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep for a few more days, but if Waverley and Miss Murphy were waiting for him, then he would not keep them.

  Miss Murphy. Bridget. She had said many things to him. Did she mean them? Or had it been a dream?

  He heard the footmen returning for him and put his hands on the arms of the chair to stand. He would walk to her, by God. She had worried enough about him for a lifetime.

  Both of the footmen frowned when they saw him.

  “I think we should carry you down, sir. You do not look so good,” one of them said.

  “I am able to walk. Not very well, I grant you. You may assist me down the stairs so I do not fall.”