A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

by Louise Allen

  ‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘I had no idea, I have never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘Because it is against the law and a hanging offence.’ Flint grounded his foot and sat down beside her, disconcerted by the hazel eyes fixed on his face. ‘It isn’t all that uncommon, actually. One just ignores it.’

  ‘You…I mean…um…’ Rose looked away so he could just see the curve of her cheek. It was flushed pink.

  ‘No. You may have noticed I find women desirable,’ he said drily. ‘Anyway, lonely, frustrated women will look for a lover, more often than not. In this case their husbands looked the other way.’

  ‘How convenient for all concerned.’ Her voice was bleak. ‘I am obviously very unsophisticated about marriage.’

  ‘Rose, when I marry you I will not go with other women. I will not take a sudden interest in pretty lads and should my wedding tackle ever fail to function I can assure you that you will not be left unsatisfied. Is that plain enough for you?’

  ‘Exceedingly plain.’ Rose’s cheeks were a hectic red now. ‘As I said, I am apparently very naive. I was not so foolish as to believe that you’d had no women in your life before, you told me as much. But somehow I did not expect to meet them. Is that likely to happen very often?’

  There had been a few years after the humiliation of the fiasco with Patricia Harte when he had been glad to salve his wounded pride with willing, neglected ladies. Gradually he had become conscious of a growing distaste. He was using them, they were using him and it felt underhand. He began to have liaisons with camp followers, women who had a warmth and a practical loyalty about them that encompassed the uncertain life expectancy of their partners. He knew he was not easy to live with and he never attempted to hold them in the relationship. It had seemed a better way to carry on than—

  ‘I see.’ Rose stood up and he realised that his few seconds of thought had appeared to her to be a tacit admission that Brussels was probably swarming with his past lovers.

  ‘Rose, I honestly do not know. Not many. I am hardly Don Juan. I am sorry, it never occurred to me that you would be embarrassed by this. ‘

  ‘Or that I would ever find out, I imagine. I would like to go home now.’ She set off down the path and unfurled her parasol, almost putting his eye out with it as she did so.

  ‘Rose, I cannot help my past, all I can do is to promise you that I will be utterly faithful to you.’

  ‘Forgive me, Major Flint, but somehow I do not find that very reassuring.’

  ‘Damn it!’ She kept on going. Flint strode past and stood in her path. ‘Are you doubting my word?’

  That confounded parasol stopped him seeing her face, she wielded it with the skill of a fencer. ‘I do not know! Adam, I thought I was in love with you. Now…now I have no idea what I think.’

  Love? It knocked the breath out of him for a moment, long enough for her to sweep past him. Rose was in love with him? Flint struggled to breathe as though someone had punched him in the solar plexus. What the devil did that mean? If she was in love, then why fight against marriage?

  ‘Rose, calm down. This is getting out of hand.’ Even as he said it he knew the words were a mistake. You did not tell a woman who had just declared that your past behaviour had probably killed her love for you to calm down.

  She kept going. ‘Did I say I didn’t know what to think? Silly me. I know precisely what I think. And I am as calm as I wish to be. Good day, Major Flint.’

  Short of throwing her over his shoulder he did not see how he could stop her. French cavalry was easier to deal with by a long mile. Flint fell into step behind her imperious, furious figure across the Parc and the few hundred yards to the house.

  It was just a tiff, he told himself. Her nose had been put out of joint, that was all. They had been in perfect harmony before, she thought she might be in love with him. It would soon blow over.

  He stood at the foot of the steps as she hammered on the front door, waited while Heale opened it.

  ‘Miss Tatton,’ the butler said on a gasp.

  ‘That man—’ Rose turned and pointed at Flint. ‘I am not At Home to that man. Ever.’

  The door banged closed in his face as he took the steps, three in one stride. ‘Rose.’ Rose.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Miss Tatton.’ Heale’s voice stopped her as she reached the foot of the stairs. ‘Lady Thetford is not yet home. Shall I send your maid to you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ It took a moment to collect herself sufficiently to fix a smile on her lips when she turned back to the butler. ‘A lovers’ tiff, Heale, that is all. Please do not say anything to my parents.’

  The smile seemed to reassure him. Heale was, she recalled, a terrible romantic behind the stiff butler’s facade. ‘My lips are sealed, Miss Tatton.’

  Rose ran upstairs to her room and locked the door. The nagging memories had crystallised into a certainty, the knowledge that she had been avoiding marriage because men let her down. Or perhaps, she thought as she took off her bonnet and pelisse and curled up on the window seat, perhaps she had been very naive in her expectations.

  She looked down at the empty street. Of course Adam was not pacing up and down outside, distracted with despair because she’d run from him. He’s got more sense, she thought with a little laugh that threatened to turn into a sob. There was an ache in her midriff over that encounter with his past lovers. It had hurt and shocked her far more than it should have done, given that Adam was a soldier, not a monk. Of course he’d had lovers, she told herself. And why should he tell her about them? No gentleman would reveal such things to his betrothed.

  I can forgive him those women, even the society ladies, yet I was never so forgiving in the past. Perhaps I never loved anyone enough to forgive.

  Would her diaries tell her more? She had never thought to read them once the therapy of writing was done. Rose went to the chest at the foot of the bed and lifted the stack of blankets out to reveal the piece of paper concealing the base. That lifted away and she could hook her little finger into the knothole in the middle and lift the board out. The space created by the ornate carving around the bottom was packed with slim leather-bound books.

  Rose lifted out the most worn, then sat back on her heels and stared at it.

  Catherine Tatton. Her Diary. 1809.

  That was her name and for the first time it felt real, as though it belonged to her. This was the diary she had been given by her godmother for the Christmas before she made her come-out and the others had arrived every year since.

  Rose piled the volumes on her writing desk, set the room to rights and rang for her maid.

  Jane came in and began to gather up her discarded bonnet, gloves and parasol. ‘Was there anything else, Miss Catherine?’

  ‘Should my mother enquire, please tell her I am reading quietly in my room.’ With any luck, given that it was Sunday, her mother would assume she was perusing the book of sermons she had left rather obviously on top of the dresser the day before. ‘I will take a light luncheon on a tray, here.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Jane draped the pelisse over her arm. ‘I’ll tell the kitchen.’

  As soon as she was alone Rose took the first volume and curled up in the armchair. There were the details of six years of her life to restore. Perhaps when she had reached the end she would know what had made her the woman who had so recklessly run away with Gerald, the woman who found it so difficult to trust even the man she was almost certain she loved.

  *

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Lady Thetford looked up from her embroidery as Rose entered the drawing room. ‘That is a pretty gown, I knew I was right about the floss trim at the hem.’ She regarded the evening dress with approval. ‘Your papa will be down shortly. And how was your walk with Major Flint this morning?’

  ‘It was very pleasant, Mama. We met a number of ladies of our acquaintance.’ And two of his. She found her own sewing box and took out the handkerchief she had been decorating with a monogram. She had gon
e to the box without having to think about it, another sign that her memory was returning, and bending over the intricate white work was as good a way to shield her face and her emotions as any.

  ‘And so did we.’ Lady Thetford held up several strands of pink silk to the light and regarded them dubiously. ‘The salmon or the blush pink? The blush, I think. What was I saying? Ah, yes. I had several useful encounters and have three invitations to show for it.

  ‘Lady Hemmingford is holding a small soirée tomorrow night and invites all of us, including the major. She says it is quite impromptu as she was seeing who was in town first. Then Mrs Grace tells me that the dinner party she had invited us to several weeks ago is still to go ahead. She has had to revise the table somewhat as her nephew was injured, but that means she can fit in the major. And Lady Anderson is having an afternoon tea party in her garden on Thursday, provided the weather holds. And of course I secured an invitation for Major Flint.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama.’ A pinprick of blood welled up on her finger. How had that happened? ‘Everyone we met was friendly. It seems no one suspects anything even though I have not been seen for several days.’

  ‘Such a relief. Are you still feeling very low about all of this, Catherine, dear? I think I may become resigned to your major, you know. His behaviour and appearance this morning were beyond reproach and your papa has told me he is impressed with his straightforward manner.’ She threaded her needle with bright green and began to attack a pattern of trailing vines.

  ‘His birth is highly regrettable, naturally, but then, if you will go refusing a succession of perfectly eligible gentlemen, Season after Season, and crown it all by running off with a penniless lieutenant, we must be grateful for a good-looking man with manners and money in the funds.’

  ‘Funds?’ Adam had no money, surely? He seemed to have his uniform, half a dozen shirts, a horse and dog to his name.

  ‘Of course he has, dearest. And letters from his bankers to prove it. I must admit that was when I began to think more positively of him, for I can acquit him of fortune hunting. Your papa says he seems to have simply saved everything he has earned for years and invested it very wisely. Which is particularly gratifying because it does demonstrate that he is not given to expensive vices like gaming or…er…’

  ‘Loose women?’ Rose enquired. Adam didn’t need to pay for them, it seemed—they lined up for admission to his bed.

  ‘Really, dear! A lady does not acknowledge such creatures. We have discussed that before.’

  ‘How is one to know whether a prospective husband indulges in vice in that case?’ Other than overhearing him bragging to his friends. That was what had saved her from her first mistake when, halfway through her debut Season, she had found herself outside the library door at a ball and heard Lord Philip Weston informing his brother that not only had he found himself a well-bred heiress, but the silly little peahen believed herself in love with him.

  The peahen in question had cried herself to sleep for a week and then cut Lord Philip dead when she next encountered him. The diary had charted the heartache of a wiser and more cautious Miss Tatton. Handsome young lords were obviously not to be trusted, but older, more sober gentlemen could not be so two-faced, surely? The Earl of Harwich had seemed perfect. His respectful courtship, his manly declaration of love, his respectable way of life all convinced her that she was safe to give him her heart. It was his—until her best friend Miss Winstanley whispered that there had been the most terrible scene outside White’s the night before when the discarded, pregnant mistress of the earl had waylaid him on the steps and demanded he provide for the babe.

  And so it continued for Season after Season. Miss Tatton learned to investigate her suitors with great care and all of them proved to have feet of clay in one way or another. They harassed female servants at house parties, they gambled excessively, they were cruel to their horses or they lied about their wealth. Her judgement of men was obviously completely awry, she had confided to her diary on the third of March last year. Either she could not bring herself to trust or she could not fall in love with the right man.

  Love was important, Rose thought now. Mutual love, or how could men resist the lures of other women? Even honourable men seemed to find it acceptable to keep mistresses. It was an impossible situation, she pondered, sucking her sore fingertip. If she allowed herself to love and was betrayed, then her heart would be broken and she would be tied to the man who broke it. If she made a marriage without love then she might as well resign herself to betrayal from the start. Adam would never deliberately hurt her, she was certain, but it would be a cold thing to marry a husband you loved but who did not love you.

  When she had cautiously probed the subject with Mama months ago she had been told merely that a lady did not even think about husbands straying. Such things were below her notice and one ignored them as loftily as one did when one’s carriage horse passed water in the middle of Rotten Row.

  That had chilled her. What if Papa…? she had begun in her diary that night and then hastily crossed it through. Every man who courted her had some flaw in his character which meant she could not give him her respect, let alone her heart. In March she had begun to worry that the fault lay with her. Was she attractive only to fortune hunters or cynical rakes? Or was she, in turn, only attracted to that sort of man?

  Which was why, she now realised, she had talked herself into love with Gerald. He was good-looking, he was kind and, as an officer, he was surely courageous. He was not, she confided in her diary, exactly intellectual. But then a kind heart was far better than a cutting wit. Even her most exacting enquiries had revealed nothing to his discredit and perilously eavesdropping outside the billiards room at a party had caught him confessing to nothing more wicked than attending a prize fight.

  It had been a shock when Papa had refused his suit on her behalf, but to Gerald’s credit he had not suggested the elopement. That had been her idea.

  ‘Why are you moping?’ Mama demanded, jerking her back to the present.

  ‘Am I?’ She supposed she was. Reading six years of romantic disillusionment in one sitting was enough to make one positively blue deviled. But at least she now knew what her instincts had been trying to tell her. She was a dreadful judge of men. ‘I was thinking about poor Gerald.’ The anxiety that she had used him for her own purposes was weighing on her conscience. Was she no better than the men she despised for deceiving her?

  ‘It is very sad, but you can console yourself with the thought that his fate had nothing to do with the elopement.’ Lady Thetford was robust. ‘And he was doing his duty in a noble cause.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ And she had been some comfort to him all through that dreadful night, she thought now. But her motives had been selfish. What a mess. At least she could make amends for heaping the sins of those other men on Adam’s head. But they must still talk, she still wanted, needed, reassurance about how he looked at marriage. ‘I must write to Major Flint,’ she said. ‘Is there time before dinner?’

  ‘I think so.’ Her mother glanced at the mantel clock. ‘You will want to tell him about the invitations, I imagine.’

  Those, of course, and to apologise for slamming the door in his face and denying him the house. She owed him that, at least. If she had not eloped in the first place, none of this would have happened; it was up to her to put things right. If she was not with child, then perhaps she could persuade him, and her parents, that he need not tie himself to her. She wished she knew what was the right thing to do.

  When the note was written she handed it to Heale. ‘Please see this is delivered to Major Flint’s lodgings as soon as you can spare a footman from dinner service. And, Heale, I did not mean what I said about denying me to the major. He will be received whenever he calls.’

  *

  Flint flattened the single sheet of notepaper under his hand and read it yet again. It had arrived last night while he had been out at a meeting with the other officers and NCOs who had been left in c
harge in the city, and he had tossed it, unread, on to the litter of reports on his desk.

  To the devil with all women, he had thought as he pulled off his clothes and fell into bed. He could do without pages of reproaches on top of a heap of medical reports, statistics, charge sheets and the court martial of a corporal accused of rape.

  This morning, fortified by one of Maggie’s breakfasts, he had opened it and found, not a lecture on his sins, but one side of neatly written apology for Rose’s ‘overreaction’ and a list of social engagements. He had to confess himself surprised. Rose had been distressed and embarrassed and he could appreciate why. She had been in tears and that felt…uncomfortable.

  In his experience distressed, embarrassed ladies expressed themselves with flying china and raised voices. Rose, it seemed, was out of the ordinary. Unless, of course, reflection had shown her that far from thinking herself in love with him, she really did not care enough to be angry.

  Flint stared at the list of hospitals he was to visit that day until the words blurred out of focus. Which was better? A wife who loved him and who he was bound to hurt because he had no idea how to love a wife in return, or one who could barely tolerate him and who had been forced into the marriage to escape ruin? What did love even feel like, anyway? He certainly was not in the besotted state he had occasionally observed in his friends, although half the time he suspected they were being led by their wedding tackle and not their hearts.

  That he could understand. Sex was straightforward. A memory of one lady and her tricks with a pair of silk stockings and a hairbrush gave him pause. Mostly straightforward. Making love with Rose was better than with anyone else in his experience. Perhaps that was because she was so fresh, so unjaded. He dipped his quill into the inkpot and then sat while it dripped on to the desk as he thought about pale, silky skin, the perfect weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her on his lips.

  Yes, sex was straightforward. But the way he felt after he had made her so upset, no, that was not straightforward at all. ‘Damnation!’ He blotted at the ink with his pen wiper. Now he had to spend the next two evenings trussed up in his dress uniform doing the pretty. Just what did one do at a soirée anyway?