My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  But pleased as she was by these compliments, Isobel found that all her attention was focused on one tall scarlet-coated figure that hovered outside the circle of well-wishers. What was she to say to him? How could she avoid speaking to him with so many eyes upon her?

  At last Christian reached her side. “Mademoiselle, they are beginning the waltz in the next room. It would be the greatest honor if you would grant me this dance.”

  With Emily standing at her elbow smiling slyly, there was nothing to do but accept with as much good grace as possible and allow him to lead her into the next room, where the musicians were playing one waltz after another.

  “Mademoiselle Isobel,” Christian began as he maneuvered them over to a less crowded corner of the room. “I cannot live with a mere apology. It was presumptuous of me to intrude into your affairs as I did, but believe me, I have chastised myself for my behavior a great many times over since that day. Please, can you not put it behind you and let us continue with the friendship I thought we shared.”

  “But of course, my lord. I have already told you that I accept your apologies.”

  Even to Isobel’s ears, her reply sounded utterly false. She felt Christian’s right hand increase its pressure and tighten its grip on her waist through the thin silk of her ball gown, while his left held hers more tightly.

  “No, Isobel, I will not be fobbed off in that manner. How can you insult our previous acquaintance by dismissing it so lightly? I missed you desperately.” He stopped by one of the open windows and looked down at her searchingly, daring her to evade the issue with politely facile replies.

  Again, tears welled up in her eyes as she looked up at him. “And I you, my Lord.”

  The whispered reply was so low that he felt it rather than heard it. He whirled her into an alcove and held her close for a moment. “By God I have been lonely without you to talk to, to consult about so many things, and to hear how you would answer.”

  He released his hold on her as another couple glided close to them. “Tell me, do you ever walk in the park, oh, about ten in the morning? It is not yet the fashionable hour and one can enjoy the grass, the trees, the flowers, and the birds in peace, and one can even forget that we are about to go to war.”

  “And will it come soon?”

  “Very soon.”

  “Ah.” She signed sadly. “Yes, I do walk in the park.”

  “Good.”

  They finished the dance in silence and he restored her to Emily, who smiled archly at both of them. Then, not wishing to be forced to pay any attention to anyone else or think about anyone else, Christian left the room and went back to headquarters to pore over maps, read the latest reports, and think about the upcoming meeting in the park.

  It was gray and cloudy and threatening to rain the next morning and the headquarters on the rue Montagne du Parc was a scene of frenzied activity, for information had just arrived that General de Bourmont, wearing a royalist cockade on his hat, had ridden over from French lines and revealed to a Prussian officer that the French had crossed the Sambre and were planning to attack Charleroi that afternoon, but Christian would let nothing keep him from slipping out just before ten and, hoping against hope that Isobel would be there, hurrying over to the park.

  He had no difficulty picking out her graceful figure accompanied by the short square one of Marthe. Marthe had seen the expectant look in Isobel’s eyes as she pulled on her straw-colored satin bonnet and green sarcenet pelisse, and she knew immediately that something beyond ordinary importance was involved. Loath though she was to intrude upon her mistress, she also knew her duty, and grabbing up her own bonnet and joined Isobel. “Mademoiselle, you must let me accompany you. This is not London and there are soldiers about. I shall not intrude, but I must accompany you.”

  “Very well.” The significance of Marthe’s tone was not lost on Isobel, who not for the first time, realized that there was very little about her that the old servant missed.

  When they reached the park, Marthe looked around and, just as she expected, she caught sight of a tall, scarlet-coated figure hurrying toward them. Offering her thanks to le Bon Dieu who had seen to it that her Petite and the handsome English milord were once again brought together, she fell a good distance behind Isobel as Christian joined them.

  “Mademoiselle.” He smiled down at Isobel in a way that turned her bones to water. The gaunt lines of his face seemed to have softened and the gray-green eyes lost some of their sadness as he gazed down at her.

  “Are they ... is there any news?”

  He nodded grimly. “Yes, they have crossed the Sambre. We are bound to meet them soon.”

  “Oh.” There was a sharp intake of breath and she grew pale. “Do you know if... I mean, is Marshal Ney crossing the Sambre as well?”

  “I believe so.” Christian was puzzled.

  “It is Auguste. I know that he is with the enemy, but I...” Isobel’s voice caught in her throat.

  “Auguste? Oh your brother. He is with Ney?”

  She nodded. “Yes, he fought with him in the Peninsula, and he was with him in Paris before Ney joined Bonaparte. Papa thinks Auguste is a traitor, but I do not.”

  The words tumbled out so defiantly that Christian smiled. She looked so fierce, ready to do battle with him should he dare to think anything dishonorable of her brother. “Mademoiselle, if he is fighting with the one they call le brave des braves, then I am quite sure that your brother is no traitor. And if he has fought under Ney in the Peninsula, then he is as experienced and battle-hardened as a man can be. In a test such as the one we are about to face, a respected leader, plenty of experience, and a good horse, are the best protection a man can have.”

  She smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you. Auguste went back to France thirteen years ago, after the peace was signed, to see if he could reclaim some of our property. He did, but before he could do more, he was made to join the army. What could he do but submit? At least by choosing the cavalry he was able to ride. But as he fought beside these men, he came to like them for their dedication to their country and to their work, and he began to admire all that Napoleon had done for France, a man who was not born to the position of emperor, but who had worked to earn it. Auguste and Papa had never agreed about the absolute rights of the king and now Auguste, after having lived through the horrors of the Revolution, which was the fault of a king who had inherited the throne and governed poorly, was seeing how powerful and strong France had become in just a few years under the rule of a man who taught himself to lead and to govern. If he could have, Papa would have disowned Auguste. As it was, he would no longer allow his name to be mentioned in our house, but I would not forget the big brother who helped me to climb trees and taught me how to ride. So I wrote to him year after year. And, I had not seen him in over ten years, until I saw him that day in the park.” She flushed self-consciously at the uncomfortable memories associated with that meeting.

  “Mademoiselle Isobel, if I could have cut my tongue out before I had said ...”

  “It is no matter. I just wish you to know how much Auguste means to me. He is the only one of all the émigrés in our community who agreed with me that much of their pride was based on nothing but worn-out titles, and petty rules of precedence in a court that no longer had a country to rule. And he is now to fight a battle, and who knows ...”

  “Hush.” Christian took her hand in a strong, reassuring clasp. “Your brother is doing as I am, he is taking a risk to do something he believes in. Not many of us is given that opportunity. If he does not survive, you will know that he died doing something he wanted to do, not something that he was forced into by an accident of birth. That is the most that any of us can hope for. Surely you, as you follow your own dreams, can understand that. Now”—he tilted her head to look at him—“I must go, but I want you to smile at me before I do.”

  Isobel summoned up a wavering smile.

  “Good girl. Do you attend the Duchess of Richmond’s ball tonight? I do not imagi
ne that the Marchioness of Verwood would miss it for the world.”

  Isobel nodded.

  “Good, then I shall see you there.” He lifted her gloved hand, kissed it, and strode off, leaving her to stare after him, a dreamy look in her eyes while Marthe, who had just overheard the last few words of the conversation, pulled a large handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes sighing sympathetically. “Ah, ma pauvre petite. This horrible war.”

  Chapter 33

  Marthe dressed her mistress with extra care that evening and, accustomed as she was to Isobel’s beauty, she could not help exclaiming as she did the last button on the white satin ball gown. “Ah, but you look like an angel, petite.”

  The Marchioness of Verwood drove Isobel to the ball, which was held in the converted coach house behind the Duke and Duchess of Richmond’s in the rue de la Blanchisserie. “Verwood would insist on staying home in order to hear any news, which I told him is quite a ridiculous notion for anyone who is anyone will be at the ball. He will hardly hear anything sooner than Wellington, Maitland, Uxbridge, Hay, or Fitzroy Somerset and they will undoubtedly be at the ball.”

  Indeed, there was a predominance of uniforms of every kind when they arrived, and the room was abuzz with news which grew in severity as the evening wore on: the French were advancing, English troops were said to be assembling in the Place Royale, English troops were beginning to march toward the front. But Isobel had no time for any of it as she eagerly searched the room for one particular soldier.

  Suddenly there was a hush, and then the buzz in the room grew louder as Wellington, his host, and a group of aides-de-camp appeared in the doorway. The crowd pressed toward them, anxious for details and a confirmation or denial of the rumors that had been flying all day. As the duke bent over to say a word in the ear of Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster, Isobel caught a glint of candlelight on auburn hair, just behind Wellington’s left shoulder. He was here, then! Her mouth grew dry and her heart began to pound. Would he notice her in all this crush of people?

  At the moment. Lady Emily was chatting gaily to Lady Conyngham and Isobel seized her chance to escape. She had no very good idea of where she was going, just somewhere where Lord Christian could distinguish her from the crowd. Nodding and smiling randomly at people she encountered, Isobel edged her way toward the duke, who was alternately chatting with Lady Georgiana Lenox and other ladies gathered anxiously around him, and stopping to give orders to a variety of officers who kept hurrying up to him, exchanging a word or two, and leaving again.

  Isobel watched as these officers went to seek out brother officers in the ballroom. Slowly and inconspicuously they began to leave in groups of twos and threes. Her heart beat faster. Something was most definitely amiss. Through the open window just behind her, she heard the tramp of feet marching toward the Place Royale. Oh Lord, Isobel prayed silently, do not let him get called away before I have a chance to say good-bye.

  “Mademoiselle Isobel.”

  She whirled around to find Lord Christian right behind her. He had been forced to take a most circuitous route, but had reached her at last. “Oh, my lord”—she held out both hands—“I am so glad to see you. You are going, then?”

  He clasped both her hands in his and held them tightly for a moment before raising first one and then the other to his lips. “I am, but before I do, I wanted to ask one thing of you.”

  “Yes?” The gray-green eyes were looking gravely down at her as though trying to tell her something, but what? She sensed that there was something he wanted desperately, but try as she would she could not guess what it was. All she could do was cling to his hands, feeling their strength and warmth. She wished she could give him something that would reassure him as much as his quiet, solid presence steadied her. “Yes, what can I do? Name it and I will do it.”

  He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him, how important she was to him, how he loved her. He wanted to ask her if she loved him in return and if she would wait for him no matter what happened, but he could not. It would not be fair to her, for how could a woman, especially someone as sensitive and understanding as Isobel, refuse anything to a man who might very likely die the next day? No, if he made it through the next few days alive and unscathed, then he would ask her, but not now. He wanted her to love him as he loved her, to long for him with the same passion as he longed for her, and not out of pity. He wanted her simply to love him for who he was without being blinded or coerced by the extraordinary events unfolding around them. But at the same time, he could not leave with just a simple good-bye. He wanted something to hold on to during the coming battle, something to remember during the worst moments of what was to come.

  Still clasping both her hands in his, he led her gently toward a half-open door and out into a small yard behind the ballroom. A few paces away was a tree. Pulling her underneath it, he held her close for a moment, memorizing every inch of her face—the long, dark lashes, the exquisite triangle of her face with its high cheekbones, slender arched brows, and generous but delicately sculpted lips. “Sing for me, please,” he whispered softly.

  For a moment Isobel could not think what he meant. She was mesmerized by the look in his eyes, the feel of the broad solidity of his chest, the warmth of his breath in her hair. Sing? What could she sing? How could she sing when there was such a lump in her throat that she doubted she could even find her voice to reply, much less sing? But she must. She must give him something of herself to take with him, perhaps forever.

  Slowly she disengaged herself and, drawing in several deep breaths very slowly, she began quietly, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” As the song swelled in her throat, the beauty of Handel’s exquisite music washed over her and she sang as she had never sung before. “I know that my Redeemer liveth and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.” Tears streamed down her face as she thought of all that this man had done for her, all that he had come to mean to her, and how desperate were his chances and the chances of hundreds of thousands of men poised to fight one another.

  The notes of her song, sung as softly as she could, were carried through some of the open windows of the ballroom, and more than one person heard the words “I know that my Redeemer liveth” rising above the hum of conversation. More than one anxious heart took comfort from their message. “For now is Christ risen from the dead, the first fruits of them that sleep.” She ended her song and fell silent, captured by the spell of the music.

  Again Christian gathered both of her hands in his and pulled her close. “I know that my redeemer liveth.” He kissed her gently, worshipfully, and then put her gently away from him. “It is time, Isobel. I must go.” He turned toward the ballroom to join the others who were kissing their loved ones good-bye.

  “Do take care, I beg you.” The blue eyes were wide with anxiety.

  “I shall. After all, what is one battle to someone who has survived so many?” His lips twisted in an ironic smile. “If you will give me your address, I shall send word as soon as I can when it is over.”

  “Oh yes. Thank you,” she breathed. “We are at Madame Hubert’s in the rue du Musee.”

  “Then I hope I may call on you there soon.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Christian had reached the door of the ballroom and, standing in the golden square of light that poured through it, he raised his hand before being swallowed up by the crowd. “Think of me,” he whispered inaudibly.

  “Good-bye, my lord.” Isobel was not even sure he heard the words as he disappeared into the ballroom. “Take care of yourself, my love.” She leaned against the tree and wept. How could she bear it if he did not return? The tears poured down her face and sobs choked her until at last she had no more tears to weep. Delicately wiping her eyes with one gloved finger, she pushed her hair back into place, straightened her shoulders, and, drawing a deep, steadying breath, walked back into the ballroom, where the number of guests was rapidly dwindling. She need not have worried about her appearance, for there
were few dry eyes in the room. Everywhere, sisters, mothers, wives, and sweethearts were clinging to one another, wiping eyes already reddened with weeping.

  Lady Emily was one of the few not entirely overcome, but seeing her friend re-enter the ballroom, she hurried over to her and after one look at Isobel’s pale face, put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Come, my dear. Let us be gone. Lord Uxbridge has already instructed all officers to finish their dances and return to their quarters. It is time we were safe in our own houses. Let us leave the streets to the troops.”

  Blindly Isobel followed her to the carriage. In complete silence, they rode the short distance to the rue du Musee, where Marthe was waiting. One glance at her mistress’s tragic expression, and Marthe hurried her to her bedchamber and went to rouse the servant girl to heat up some milk.

  Marthe had heard the tramp of feet, the clatter of sabers, and the clop of horses’ hooves as soldiers headed toward the Place Royale, and there was no need to ask whether or not one particular soldier had been ordered to march. She brought the cup of milk up herself and helped her mistress into bed. “Do not worry, petite, Marie and I shall keep our ears open and we shall let you know the moment there is any news.”

  “Thank you, Marthe.” Isobel climbed into bed and, clutching her pillow, lay listening to the distant thud of hundreds of hooves, the rumble of carts, and the occasional command that rang out in the empty streets. Her mind was in a turmoil. How could she have been so blind? She was in love with Christian Hatherleigh, and it was not until a few short hours ago that she had allowed herself to acknowledge it. Why had she not told him? She wanted to run after him now to tell him before it was too late. But would he have cared? By all accounts, a great many women had loved him; what did it matter that there was one more?

  She lay for hours, holding her pillow and thinking that sleep would never come, but come it must have, for the next time she looked toward the window of her bedchamber, daylight, pale and gray, was flooding her room. She threw on her clothes and ran downstairs, where she met Marthe on her way to serve the duc his breakfast.