The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  It was quickly over, and the patient was in spirits enough afterward to crack a joke about his good fortune. Deirdre, huddled in a chair, sick at heart and more frightened than she had ever been in her life, felt a wave of gratitude to a woman who could work such a transformation with a few smiles and words.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked later, when most of the lights had been doused and they were making the rounds together.

  Mrs. Dewinters gave her a long, hard look and took her time before replying. “I told him that I once had a lover who had lost an arm in battle and he was more man than I could hope to handle.”

  Before she could stop herself, Deirdre blurted out, “Truly?” then blushed scarlet at her lack of tact as much as the show of vulgar curiosity.

  “Yes, truly!” said Mrs. Dewinters quietly. “He was my husband,” and she swept up the stairs, leaving a contrite Deirdre to regret the sheen of tears that was clearly reflected in her eyes.

  Deirdre rose at noon to a day of oppressive heat and gave herself a sponge bath before dressing. Lady Fenton and Solange had taken over the care of the Dawson children while Mrs. Dewinters and Deirdre, with some of the ladies of hardier sensibilities who had also been stranded in the hotel, became nurses and maids under the direction of Dr. McCallum. It was a division of labor which, if not agreeable to all, at the least was agreed upon by all.

  Once the hotel had been turned into a hospital, there was no more talk of the Fenton party retreating to Antwerp. More wounded arrived by the hour, and it was perfectly obvious that the medical corps, such as it was, would be totally inadequate to deal with the main onslaught of wounded once the decisive battle was joined.

  During the hours that Deirdre had slept, some British casualties had been conveyed to the makeshift hospital. The news which they brought was disquieting in the extreme, although Dr. McCallum summed it up lightly by saying, “The Prussians have taken a beating, it would seem. They’re down, but not out by any means, and Wellington is still counting on them.”

  More was to follow. The Duke, by design, had evacuated his forces from Quatre Bras during the night and had fallen back closer to the city, to a ridge and valley just south of the Forest of Soignes which went by the name of Mont St. Jean. What was in the Duke’s mind by such a maneuver was impossible to guess, but many of the men were disgruntled since they had held on to the crossroads at great personal cost.

  The sound of the distant guns had become a constant, occasioning little remark. Shortly after Deirdre began her rounds, however, a new sound was heard which was at first unrecognizable.

  “What is it?” Deirdre asked one of the older soldiers, who was lucky enough to have sustained nothing more severe than three cracked ribs and a broken leg when a loaded supply cart had run over him.

  “Drums!”

  The silence in the room lengthened, stretched taut, pulsed with throbbing emotion, and Deirdre felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rise.

  The slow crescendo of marching boots and the irresistible tattoo of drums turned into the Rue de la Madeleine, and every man in the room reached for the nearest weapon. Those who could walk moved cautiously to the windows. Deirdre caught a glimpse of a sea of scarlet tunics with white lace and shakoes with bobbing white plumes. A cheer went up behind her and then a cry of “The Inniskillings! The Inniskillings! Go to it, boys! Show those froggies what we’re made of!”

  Civilians were opening windows all along the street and calling out their encouragement. The phalanx of Inniskillings never wavered. Flowers were showered upon them, but not an eye flickered, no rank was broken.

  “There will be no retreat now,” said one battle-wise veteran into the silence of the room’s interior. “These boys will stand to a man.”

  “Aye, they’re too daft to know when retreat is expedient,” derided the lone Highlander, the only dissenter in the censure on his commander-in-chief’s decision to give up Quatre Bras.

  His remark broke the tension. Laughter became general and confidence soared. Wellington’s ill-advised retreat from Quatre Bras was spoken of no more.

  Another furious storm broke overhead about three in the afternoon and continued well into the night, but nothing, it seemed, could dampen the good cheer that the sight of the Inniskillings had generated. If anything, hopes rose even higher. Soon, the word “Salamanca” was on everyone’s lips.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Deirdre of Mrs. Dewinters, and she gestured to the rows of hardened soldiers whose stern features were relaxed into ludicrous, beatific smiles.

  “Superstition! The veterans from Spain are remembering the eve of Salamanca when it rained cats and dogs.”

  “I don’t understand,” offered Deirdre.

  “Rain before a battle is, to them, an omen, a good luck charm. Salamanca was, as you well know, a victory Wellington snatched from the French. They think history is repeating itself.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Look at them, and you tell me.” When Deirdre said nothing, the actress patted her comfortingly on the shoulder. “Quite right. My confidence resides in Wellington’s ability also. And whatever the sentiments of the rank and file, I’m certain that the Duke is wishing the rain in Hades. Nevertheless, the superstition will make it a little easier for the men in the field to endure the soaking they are bound to have taken these last few days.”

  Hours later, when Deirdre stood at the long windows looking out at the pitch black of the night, she could see that there had been no letup in the storm. Behind her, most of the candles had been doused. Men were snoring and shifting restlessly in their sleep. The great clock in the hotel foyer chimed the hour. Midnight! Her mind was filled with impressions of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, and Rathbourne, in scarlet and gold, holding her in his warm golden gaze as he shepherded her into supper. Was it only two nights ago? Tomorrow was his birthday. Oh where was he and what was he doing?

  She switched the curtains aside and stared blindly at the sheet water coursing down the misted windowpanes. Into her mind came the picture of Rathbourne soaked to the skin and sheltering from the elements under some scraggy hedgerow. Her reflections grew darker, and she shied away from them, purposely turning them into less frightening channels.

  Her thoughts shifted to Armand and a fresh wave of uneasiness swamped her senses. When he failed to present himself at the hotel, as she had expected him to, it had occurred to her that Rathbourne had sent him to Antwerp, thinking that she would be there. She could not recall that Rathbourne had made any mention of how he would deal with the boy and the omission caused little shivers of trepidation to dance along her spine. Why had she not thought to ask him what he intended? But they had made a bargain. She fastened on that fact. Not for one moment did she believe that her husband had reneged on his promise. But there was something…

  A small movement at her back was reflected in the dark mirror depths of the windowpane. It caught her eye and she dropped the curtain.

  “You look all in.” Tony Cavanaugh’s voice was shaded with sympathy and she found it very hard not to dissolve into his arms. “Best get to bed while you have the chance. God knows what tomorrow will bring.”

  Something stirred in her breast, some profound discontent which bewildering impressions of bloodied bandages and smashed bone and the stench of untended wounds had forged in her mind throughout two exhausting and horror-filled days.

  “War is awful,” she said, and she felt a rush of helpless pity, like the ripples from a pebble dropped into a pond, spread out from the row upon row of makeshift cots along the walls of the d’Angleterre’s best public saloon to the combatants of both sides of the conflict on the slopes of Mont St. Jean and beyond, to the nameless, faceless wives and mothers in England and France who waited and prayed without ceasing for the safe return of their men. “When I see the effects of it, I can scarce take it in. How can civilized men face each other and inflict such horrible wounds? Death is one thing, but this—this suffering is beyond anythi
ng.”

  “What you need is a shot of brandy,” said Tony, a frown clouding his eyes. She made a small, gesture of refusal, but he took her arm in a firm clasp.

  “Rathbourne left you in my care. If he finds you the worse for wear when he returns, I shall be the one to pay for it. It’s bad enough that I permitted you to stay in Brussels without adding to my list of crimes. Now come along and do as Cousin Tony bids you, there’s a good girl.”

  She allowed him to lead her to a quiet corner of the hotel foyer. Within minutes, he had pressed a small glass into her hand and she was obediently sipping the fiery liquid.

  He was watching her intently, and she managed a half smile.

  “That’s better,” he said encouragingly, and rewarded her with another splash of cognac which he poured into her glass from an opened bottle in his hand.

  Until this moment, Tony Cavanaugh had made very little impression on Deirdre. She obediently sipped the brandy under his watchful eye and tried to recall what she knew of him and decided that it was very little. He was a good friend to Armand, although older than he by a few years. His parents, as she remembered, had both died when he was a child. He had no brothers or sisters, and had been raised with Rathbourne. On the death of Andrew, the Earl’s brother, Tony Cavanaugh had become Rathbourne’s heir. It occurred to her that Tony had probably lived most of his life in his cousin’s shadow. In the few occasions when she had met him socially, he had always treated her with deference and respect, but then so had every gentleman of her acquaintance with the exception of her husband. She could see how it would be very easy for a man like Rathbourne to ride roughshod over his more retiring cousin.

  “When did you arrive in Brussels?” she asked between sips of her brandy. She grimaced and tried to lay aside her glass, but he brought it back to her lips and admonished her to continue until she had drained the entire contents. She thought then that perhaps she had misjudged him. There was strength of purpose behind the mild-mannered exterior.

  “Less than a week ago,” he said in answer when he was satisfied that she meant to obey him.

  “What brought you here?”

  His eyes shifted from hers, and he replied evasively, “A family matter.”

  “Lady Caro?”

  “Who told you? Armand? Rathbourne?”

  “Oh both, in their different ways.” Her words, as she had meant them to, gave the impression that she knew more than she did.

  His guard relaxed and he said with a wry smile, “No real harm was done. A secret betrothal conducted by correspondence across the English Channel is, after all, nothing to get in a flap about. I wish Rathbourne could see it in that light, but I am afraid Armand has rubbed him the wrong way once too often.”

  She remarked very carefully, “I presume that there was a quarrel?”

  “Oh, ferocious! You didn’t know?”

  She smiled confidingly. “They don’t tell me everything, by any means, but I can imagine how it was between them.”

  “Yes, there’s no love lost between them and they both have the deuce of a temper. I’m sure Rathbourne did not mean half of what he said. Empty threats, every one of them!”

  Deirdre could not recall Rathbourne ever having made an empty threat in all the time she had known him, but she wasn’t about to say so. Though she was dropping with fatigue, she was anxious to learn more.

  “What kind of threats?”

  “Oh, the usual, murder and mayhem! No really, I’m joking! There were words between them, nothing more.”

  It was evident that he was not about to reveal what had taken place between her husband and her brother. She dragged herself to her feet, and he rose with her.

  “Try not to worry about them,” he began, and then shook his head in derision. “What an inane thing to say! Of course you will worry about them. Just try to remember that Rathbourne is a veteran. He knows what he is doing, and he will look out for Armand.”

  Her expression froze. “Armand is with Rathbourne?”

  He missed her soft inflection of shock. “I think he means to keep your brother with him, as a dispatch rider or some such thing. Armand wasn’t too pleased about getting special treatment. Well, you can imagine how that would go against the grain. I still can’t believe he turned traitor on me.”

  “Turned traitor?”

  “He said that he had no intention of getting involved in this conflict. I believed him. Then he dons a uniform and rides off with Rathbourne. I’ve half a mind to follow him. But Rathbourne left you in my charge. He’d have me shot as a deserter if I were to leave you in the lurch.”

  Her mind refused to function properly. She allowed him to lead her to the staircase and went up to her room in a daze. Bits and pieces of Armand’s letter came back to her. He had called himself a “turncoat.” Had she been mistaken in thinking that he had gone over to the French? Was it, as Tony implied, that he had changed his mind and decided to enlist? That could not be right, for Rathbourne had said that he had found him and had him under guard. She was too weary to think straight. She peeled her gown from her aching limbs and lay down on the bed in her underthings. Who was the third rider with Rathbourne and O’Toole whom she had glimpsed in the darkness? Was it Armand? Oh God! Was this Rathbourne’s way of punishing the boy—plucking him from one army and forcing him to fight on the other side? She might have known that he would not let Armand get off scot-free.

  She moved restlessly, becoming aware of the cold night air against her skin, and she pulled the coverlet over her shoulders. The temperature was dropping, a welcome respite from the suffocating humidity of the last few days. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the morrow.

  Sunday dawned cool and, at long last, without a threat of the rain which had fallen relentlessly for almost thirty-six hours. Deirdre wakened to a barrage of cannon fire. She dressed quickly and went downstairs. The hotel was unnaturally quiet. She entered one of the makeshift wards and found men propped up in their cots looking to the windows, their faces subdued and grave. Smoke clouds could be seen wafting in over the city.

  “Poor bastards,” said one. “We’re the lucky ones. I wouldn’t want to be in their boots today.”

  There was no response, each man involved in his own private reflections.

  Before long, the steady stream of medical wagons began their slow trek past the windows of the d’Angleterre with casualties from the previous day’s fighting. The hotel was filled to capacity, and Deirdre went out to direct the drivers to other centers in Grand’ Place. It was from the men in these wagons that the civilian population of Brussels received the only news of what was happening at the front.

  Deirdre approached the first wagon. She would not have recognized any of the battle-scarred occupants had she been their own mother. Mud, thick and glutinous, clung to them as if they had been dredged up from the bottom of a quagmire. Not a uniform, nor rank, nor age could be discerned among any of them. Gray, thought Deirdre, trying to contain her horror, gray, like the gray North sea; gray wraiths resurrected from a gray watery grave.

  “Miss Deirdre, is that you?”

  One of the gray ghosts had addressed her. She looked into a pair of intelligent blue eyes and the horror was dispelled a little.

  “It’s Seaton. I’m a friend of your brother. Don’t you remember me?”

  She looked carefully at the owner of the intelligent blue eyes, but she could not say, in all honesty, that she recognized him. The name, however, was familiar. William Seaton was one of the young bloods who had partnered her in the dance at the Château de Soignes and later, into the night, as an escort on their round of Brussels café life. There was nothing about him now, however, to give her any clue to placing him in Armand’s circle of friends. A grotesque, bloodstained bandage covered his head, and every inch of his garments was saturated in slime.

  “Of course I remember you, Seaton,” she said diplomatically. “It’s just that I am having trouble adjusting to thinking of you as a soldier. What happened t
o you and your comrades?”

  The men began to stir as canteens of fresh water were brought out and distributed among them by the purposefully cheerful ladies who had volunteered as Dr. McCallum’s aides.

  “We were with Lord Uxbridge in the rear guard action on the Genappe road when our chaps pulled back to Mont St. Jean. Believe it or not, we’re all of the Seventh Hussars, at your service ma’am, though you might not be able to tell by looking at us in these rags.”

  A few muted laughs from the wagon greeted this faint sally.

  The driver of the first wagon came out of the hotel with Dr. McCallum and some of the gentlemen who had been pressed into service. They were directed to a wagon farther down the column where the most seriously injured were to be found. It was seen at a glance that many of these pathetic cases had already undergone primitive surgery on the field. Deirdre forced herself to look away.

  “What happened?” she asked for something to say to distract the attention of the somber-faced men from their unfortunate comrades. “Why did Wellington retreat? Are things so bad with us?”

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Deirdre, we prefer to call it a strategic pullback, not a retreat. The Duke doesn’t tell the likes of us what is on his mind, but I have heard it from Armand, who heard it from Lord Rathbourne, that Wellington had the instincts of a wily old badger. At least, I think he said ‘badger’ or something close to it. At any rate, he’s entrenched in his warren or words to that effect, and nothing will get him out.”

  Deirdre immediately fastened on the intelligence that was of most interest to her. “You talked to Armand? Where? When? How is he?”

  “He’s fine, don’t worry. We huddled in the same leaky barn last night, which goes by the grand title of ‘field hospital,’ at a little place called Mont St. Jean. Rathbourne brought Armand in with a flesh wound to the arm. One of the French lancers had managed to nick him.” He saw her look of alarm and went on hurriedly, “No really, I mean it. His wound isn’t serious. Rathbourne said so. And even if it were, there are plenty of surgeons in the field to attend to him.”