The Love and Temptation Series

by M. C. Beaton

  “You are very kind,” exclaimed Mary, her face lighting up.

  “Why, she’s quite a little beauty!” thought Mr. Witherspoon. Nonetheless, he pressed on. “I would like to say I am doing this solely to oblige you, Lady Mary, being as how my wife has taken a fancy to you.”

  “Too kind,” murmured Mary.

  “Now my good wife is very sensitive, very sensitive indeed. Her sensibilities are easily wounded. I would, for example, not like to think that should she wish to call on you in London she would be met with a rebuff.”

  Mary was young and immature and unused to the ways of the world. Nonetheless, she knew what was being asked of her and why it was being asked. But she had promised Major Godwin to take care of Lucy.

  “I would not dream of rebuffing your wife,” she said gently.

  “And I would hope that you would introduce my good Maria to some of the delights of the ton? She has no acquaintance in London, you see,” added Mr. Witherspoon, speaking the truth for once.

  Mary felt suddenly that should she ever gain safety and feel her husband’s arms around her again, she would gladly entertain every pushing Cit in the country.

  “Of course. I should be delighted.”

  “I hope you don’t forget,” said Mr. Witherspoon, his face momentarily losing its habitual leer.

  “I am not used to having my word doubted.”

  Mr. Witherspoon studied her face for a few seconds and then slowly nodded. “Best tell Mrs. Lucy to get packed.”

  Lucy was ecstatic. She hugged Mary. She even kissed the Witherspoons. She begged Mary to return with her to her lodgings to help her pack.

  The sky outside was very black. From overhead came the sinister rumble of thunder. Mary thought dismally of the mud of a water-clogged battlefield and Lucy stared upwards, thinking of all those beautiful roads to freedom which might be washed away.

  At last Lucy was packed and seated in the carriage. She looked radiant, flashing smiles at her fellow passengers and chattering nineteen to the dozen.

  Mary heaved a sigh of relief and made her way back to her temporary home.

  “God protect Hubert,” muttered Mary desperately, “and all those poor boys.”

  She staggered up the stairs to her bedroom, still wearing the silly, ruffled morning gown and collapsed on the bed, too tired to undress and mercifully too tired to worry any more.

  The next day, Mary found her servants inclined to be surly, particularly her lady’s maid, a resident of Brussels, who was convinced that the French would beat the British and wondered why her mistress had not flown. The other servants were also locals and appeared to be dedicated Bonapartistes.

  Mary regretted not having hired a lady’s maid in England. She had always dressed herself, but on her arrival in Brussels she found that her husband had hired a local staff, and that included a pert lady’s maid, Marie Juneaux. Mary kept to her rooms that day, resting and praying, no longer wishing to venture into the streets for news of the battle since, from what she heard through the open windows, the whole of Brussels was convinced that Napoleon had won.

  The night of the seventeenth of June was miserable. Rain poured down in a steady deluge and Mary was more afraid for her husband than for herself.

  She was roused from her prayers by the unwelcome visit of Lady Clarissa.

  Lady Clarissa was not a coward and had not fled Brussels. On the contrary, the nearness of the battle and the scent of danger seemed to exhilarate her. Her cats’ eyes flashed fire like emeralds and, in defiance of the atmosphere of fear and defeat, she was bedecked with jewels and wearing her best silk gown.

  “I do not know how the men will survive this night,” said Mary miserably. Although she both despised and was jealous of her beautiful guest, she found she could not keep her fears to herself.

  “Pooh!” laughed Clarissa. “It will take more than a little rain to vanquish our brave Hubert.”

  Mary stiffened at the use of her husband’s Christian name, a fact which Clarissa gleefully noticed.

  “Your fiancé,” asked Mary stiffly. “Is he on the battlefield?”

  “Perry? Good God, no. He is too concerned for the safety of his skin. Also he is a Whig, you know, and thinks it might not be too bad if Boney won.”

  “For shame!” cried Mary, forgetting her natural timidity in a burst of outrage.

  “Claws in, my dear,” cooed Clarissa. “I said these were Perry’s views, not mine. I do confess I have a soft spot in my heart for a soldier. Dear Hubert, so strong, so brave.”

  “You knew my husband before our marriage, I believe,” said Mary, desperately wishing this woman would go away, and at the same time, desperately wishing to hear the worst.

  “Oh, yes, very well,” smiled Clarissa languorously. “One never thought Hubert would get married, you know. But ah me! The things men do for money.”

  Mary rose to her feet and stood looking down at Clarissa, her large eyes sparkling with anger. “You are offensive,” she said coldly. “I have worries enough without your malice. Please leave.”

  “Oh, ’tis a jealous little wife,” said Clarissa rising languidly to her feet and patting Mary on the cheek. “But it is the truth after all.”

  “My husband loves me—and only me,” lied Mary, her anger giving her voice a ring of conviction. “I am annoyed and irritated by your impertinence, that is all.”

  Clarissa surveyed her for a few seconds, her green eyes narrowed into slits. Why, when the little thing was animated, she was quite beautiful. “I shall lose the game,” thought Clarissa, “and I make an enemy of her. Hubert will take her part simply because she is his wife. He always was a bit of a stuffed shirt after all.”

  She accordingly threw her arms round Mary and cried, “Ah, you must forgive me. I was in love with Hubert once, Lady Mary, and I am still a little jealous. I have a wicked tongue and see how these rumors and dangers have upset me and make me say stupid things. Please forgive me.”

  She stared appealingly at Mary, opening her eyes to their widest.

  Mary was lonely and afraid. She was not yet aware that Clarissa was a superb actress. “Please,” urged Clarissa softly. “I am engaged to Perry after all, and I am not the kind of woman to become affianced to a man I do not love.”

  Mary gave a little sigh. “I forgive you,” she said quietly. “There are too many enemies out there. I do not wish to have any at home.”

  “Splendid!” cried Clarissa. “Come now. I see a backgammon board over there. Why do we not have a game to pass the waiting hours and I shall tell you all the scandal of London.”

  During the next few hours, Mary had to admit that Clarissa was extremely entertaining company. When Clarissa put her mind to it, she could charm both women and men. And Mary was still too young to realize that beautiful and charming people can often be quite nasty and cruel. She found herself laughing at Clarissa’s stories. Clarissa did not mention Hubert again and Mary became convinced that Clarissa could not have been her husband’s mistress. In her innocence, she believed that Clarissa’s desire to please her and keep her company was ample proof of that.

  Unaware that his wife and his former mistress were cosily engaged in a game of backgammon, Lord Hubert lay in the muddy battlefield and wrestled with his guilty conscience. He was old campaigner enough to have smeared his blankets with clay to waterproof them but, nonetheless, the unceasing pounding of the rain got on his nerves.

  Tomorrow might be his last day. They had held the French at Quatre Bras, but God alone knew how long he and his men could stand up to this ceaseless pounding. So many had already fallen. The Duke of Brunswick was dead as was most of Wellington’s staff. Wellington himself had remained miraculously untouched, riding here and there in the very thick of the battle; his calm, deep voice urging the men on.

  Hubert wished he had left a happy wife behind him. He had not meant to be so cruel to her, and now he wondered if he would now have a chance to return from the battle and make amends. If only the damnable rain would
cease, then he would be able to pen a letter. He wondered what she thought of him behind that madonna-like mask of a face. Her eyes had registered a lost, hurt bewilderment as she looked down at him from the window as he rode away. But then, he thought cynically, any nicely-bred girl would look exactly the same after the sort of night she had endured. Perhaps she might not care if he never returned. That thought annoyed him. He did not love her but she was his wife after all and he did not want to think of her enjoying all the license of a young widow in the saloons of London.

  The sky turned pale gray and the rain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. He sat up stiffly. A flaming red sun climbed up over the fields of rye, turning them as bloody a color as they were going to be before this hellish day was ended.

  He looked across the fields to the small ridge above Waterloo and recognized the trim figure of the Duke of Wellington astride his horse Copenhagen. He was wearing his blue frock coat and a low cocked hat that bore the black cockade of England with the colors of Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands.

  Hubert felt a lifting of his heart. The Duke had pulled them through so very many times when all the odds seemed against them. Surely he would do the same again today!

  “I shall write to Mary this evening,” thought Hubert, rising stiffly to his feet. “This evening will be time enough.”

  The Brussels morning dawned. Knots of people stood around their doorways, dreading the arrival of the French. Rumors flew from mouth to mouth. The Prussians had been defeated, the English had been defeated, the English had won. And then the carts began to arrive.

  They rolled into Brussels in a seemingly endless stream, carrying the dying and the wounded. Mary, who had been up all night, ran downstairs rushing from one wagonload to the other, searching for her husband, searching for anyone who might be able to give her news.

  At last, she saw the white, drawn and bloodied face of Peter Bennet. “Carry him into my house,” she cried to some soldiers, “and anyone else you think I can help.”

  She rushed back and roused her surly servants to action, crying for medicine and kettles of hot water, promising a footman a small fortune if only he could find a doctor.

  “My husband?” she asked Peter Bennet. “I know you are most dreadfully ill, but my husband…?”

  “I don’t know,” said Peter faintly. “Oh God, my head.”

  He put a thin shaking hand up to the bloodstained and dirty bandage and moaned.

  At that moment, the footman arrived triumphantly with the doctor in tow. Peter was pronounced not to be critical, although he had a high fever. The doctor turned his attention to the four other wounded men who lay in makeshift beds in Mary’s sitting room. Mary frantically fought down her fears for her husband and listened carefully to the doctor’s instructions. When he had gone, she busied herself attending to the wounded as the long hot day dragged on. And far away across the fields outside the city, the cannons of Waterloo began to sound, pounding and pounding through the heavy air. All day long the noise of cannons rolled, all day long Mary worked and prayed until she was dropping with exhaustion.

  She had a brief visit from Mrs. Witherspoon, who soon lost interest when she found that Mary was not housing a title.

  Mrs. Witherspoon was very sour. She had nursed a young man diligently all day, had given him her bed, and had paid the doctor, all in the belief that her patient was none other than the Duke of Hamden, only to find, when her patient had recovered enough to whisper his thanks, that she had wasted her time nursing a mere Mr. Hamden who was nothing more than a foot soldier. The glorious regimental jacket of the Hussars which had been draped round his shoulders had been put there by the sympathetic hands of his commanding officer.

  By nightfall, the bells in all the steeples began to ring and the news was out. Napoleon was defeated. Waterloo had been held by the British and allies. Mary’s servants promptly dropped their Bonapartiste sympathies and became tremendously pro-British, offering all kinds of help to the wounded, leaving Mary to fall into an exhausted sleep at last.

  Lord Hubert Challenge rode wearily into Brussels on the following morning behind the ragged remains of his regimental band who were playing “Rule Britannia” in double quick time. The Duke of Wellington had forbade the playing of the song for fear it might offend the allied armies, but Hubert hadn’t the heart to check them. He was bone weary, exhausted. He felt they had suffered a crushing defeat rather than a victory. So many, oh so many, dead.

  Beside him rode Major Godwin in the tattered remains of his evening dress. But the sun shone bravely and the fickle people of Brussels were all out to cheer the victors and suddenly Hubert realized he was alive. By some miracle he had emerged from that dreadful carnage, unscathed.

  He stared wonderingly down at his bloodstained uniform and marvelled that it was not his own blood. “Hey, be of cheer, man,” he called across to Major Godwin. “Don’t want Lucy to see you with a long face!”

  Major Godwin brightened and his eyes began to search the crowds. “She’s probably billeted with your wife,” he said hopefully. “I asked Lady Mary to look after her.”

  Hubert felt an almost drunken sense of exhilaration, and his head reeled like the bells tumbling and clanging above in the city steeples. He reined in at his house and dismounted. As he turned round after tethering his horse, his first thought was to look up at the window to see if Mary was there. But suddenly a pair of white arms were wound round his neck and he looked, instead, down into the beautiful face of Clarissa. “See the conquering hero comes,” she murmured.

  He threw back his head and laughed, laughed because he was alive and there were still pretty women in the world. He bent his head and kissed her.

  Upstairs, Mary let the curtain fall and turned and stared blindly across the darkened room, darkened so that the bright sunlight would not hurt the eyes of the wounded.

  Her love for Hubert, that first, fragile, tender and delicate adolescent love, withered and died. Mary was a very human girl. She thirsted for revenge. She crossed to the looking glass and stared at her reflection, at the pale face with the wide eyes and the demure wings of brown hair, then down at her fussy, frilly, outmoded gown. Her trousseau had been chosen by her mother.

  As she heard her husband’s heavy tread on the stairs, she muttered to herself, “I shall become the most dashing young matron in London. Two can play at that game and a married woman does not have the same restrictions as a young girl. Damn him to hell!”

  Peter Bennet sat quietly in a chair in the corner, studying the expressions on her face. He had been looking out from another window and had seen Hubert’s arrival. He felt bitterly sorry for Mary, but good breeding stopped him from interfering in a marriage which was none of his business.

  “Mary!”

  Lord Hubert stood in the doorway, his arms outstretched.

  “I am glad you are safe, my lord,” said Mary in a cold, formal voice. “But be so good as to lower your voice. We have wounded here.”

  Hubert looked around, aware of the other men in the room for the first time. Major Godwin walked in after him.

  “Lucy?” asked the Major, staring at Mary, his eyes wide with hope.

  Mary bit her lip, and Hubert saw her gray eyes were filled with pity for the large major. Then she walked forward and said softly, “Lucy has left for England, Major Godwin. I insisted that she go. You did place her in my care, after all.”

  The Major’s face fell, but he tried to be fair. “Thank you, my lady, I am sure that was the best thing to do. But it sort of casts a fellow down, you know, to dream of nothing on the road home but of seeing his wife again, and to find…”

  “There were very frightening rumors,” interrupted Mary gently. “At one point it seemed almost certain that we had been defeated. Practically everyone was trying to flee. It was best that she should go.”

  “Yes, but you waited,” pointed out the Major miserably.

  “Then you must blame me,” said Mary with a cheerfulness she did not feel. �
�I am afraid I all but forced your wife into the carriage. Now, sit down here by me and tell me about the battle and I shall send one of my servants to your lodgings to fetch you fresh linen.”

  Hubert watched her as she listened intently to the Major as if he were the only man in the room. He found himself becoming very angry indeed. She should have been bustling about in a wifely manner, fetching him fresh clothes and seeing to his needs.

  At last he could not bear it any longer and interrupted them with, “If you will excuse my wife, Major Godwin, I would like some words with her in private.”

  “Of course,” mumbled the Major guiltily. “Forgot.”

  Hubert led Mary into the bedroom and slammed the door. “Well, madam,” he grated. “Would you care to explain the coldness of my welcome?”

  “What else could it be but cold?” said Mary lightly. “There is no love in our marriage as you have often pointed out.”

  “Your duty as a wife…”

  “My duty, sirrah,” said Mary tartly, “has been amply fulfilled. You have saved your family home through the marriage settlements. You have my money and that, my lord, is all you are going to get. I shall not interfere with your pleasures.”

  “How dare you! You lay in my arms not so many nights ago.”

  Mary winced. “You do not love me,” she said flatly.

  Hubert shook his head wearily. He felt he should apologize but it was not in the nature of his class to apologize for anything at all—particularly to one’s wife.

  “I find this shrewish discussion fatiguing,” he said, beginning to strip off his clothes. “We must be in Paris in twelve days.”

  “You,” said Mary evenly, “can go to Paris or go to hell for all I care. I shall be in London.”

  He whipped round and struck her across the face. She looked at him coldly and then turned on her heel and slammed the door.

  He started after her to beg forgiveness. But what was the use. She was a woman, after all. And women never understood anything anyway. He was sorry he had struck her. The room suddenly seemed to swirl in front of him. God, he was tired! Mary must understand he was suffering from nerves and battle fatigue. He would make things all right with her. Just as soon as he had an hour’s sleep. That was all he needed.