The staccato burst of rifle fire was drowned by the noisy, raging water of the stream. Within minutes, Blakey, Griff and their group of riflemen, fighting on foot, were hotly engaged. Straining to hear, Griff caught the all-to-familiar words of French commands. “Forward! By order of the Emperor!”
Soon the bridge was attacked by overwhelming numbers. Sentries had been double posted but the storm smothered the Frenchmen’s approach. The sentries had been bayoneted because the rain dampened their priming powder and their guns misfired. Molested badly by the French, the riflemen couldn’t withstand the waves of determined soldiers coming at them. The Brits were either killed or badly wounded. When the skirmish ended, the bridge was choked with dead bodies. Dead Frenchmen were tossed into the raging waters and floated downstream. Griff saw a British sergeant leaning on his rifle, trying to walk on a broken leg. Griff had caught a bullet in the fleshy part of his thigh—only a flesh wound although it bled like hell. Squinting through the thick veil of raindrops, he shouted to one of his men. “Where’s Captain Blakey?”
“Dead, dead!” was the hoarse reply.
A pained groan burst from Griff’s lips. He started to search for Blakey, unable to leave the man without knowing for sure if he were dead or alive. He came upon the body, finally. A bullet had pierced his brain. He must have died instantly, and felt nothing. Blakey’s aristocratic features were calm in death. A shadow of his lazy, mocking smile remained on his lips. Griff’s grief was acute. They had gotten to know one another, laughed together, been compatriots and friends, if only briefly.
Damn this bloody war! he ranted, raising his eyes to the continuing storm.
* * * *
The siege of San Sebastian dragged into the first week of September. The fortress surrendered on the ninth day with General Louis Rey ending the negotiations. Wellington allowed the French to march out with full war honors, having defied the Allied army for more than two months. Rey’s men suffered more than two thousand casualties; the Allies lost almost twice as many.
Griff ground his teeth as he watched the Frenchmen leave, remembering his friend, Blakey, a stalwart, courageous soldier and an English peer, to boot.
Within days, Wellington talked of advancing. Every soldier was itching to set foot on French soil to get the job done. The Spanish members of the Allied forces, ragged and half-starved, were especially anxious to take revenge on the French who ravaged Spain’s countryside.
When the brigade left their camp in the first week of November, Griff was ready, eagerly attuned to the upcoming invasion of France, wondering if Wellington’s final campaign might end the war. The night was very dark, and there was no easy road over the mountains. Talking amongst the ranks was forbidden. Men in the Light division concentrated on the upcoming attack. Griff and few others volunteered to scout ahead.
One of the young foot soldiers waiting in the rear, his rifle lying beside him as he lay on the ground, whispered to the man next to him, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “This looks like an awful bloody spot to start!”
“Don’t blather, cork-brain!” The grizzled soldier replied. “Give over now, and keep your eyes skimmed for the dawn”
“I wish it would come soon.”
“Well, it won’t come no quicker for your wishin’ for it. So stow your gab!”
The signal to attack was to be three, clear, gunshots. Some firing was heard, and the young soldier jumped up at the sound. “Keep down,” growled his companion. “False attack. If you’re alive this time tomorrow, you won’t be as green as wot you are now. That’s one bloody comfort.”
The young man shivered, shut his mouth, and dropped to his knees.
* * * *
Never had the Light division engaged in a more glorious action. Griff was elated. Their speeding advance and their bravery was enough to take the French’s position by eight o’clock the next morning. The casualties were appalling, but nothing could check the swarm of redcoats heading into France. It didn’t stop most of them, although several officers were sorely wounded.
Griff was one of them. He had been in the forefront of the cavalry charge. His right arm was raised, spurring his mount and waving his saber to encourage the men. The group scattered, yelling battle cries while galloping helter-skelter down the steep incline.
Griff didn’t know what hit him when a sharp edged piece of shrapnel pierced his torso. He’d been urging Bravo to run faster. How was it that he was hit from behind?
He pulled the horse to a quivering halt on the uneven hillside. Red-coated cavalrymen raced by them in a rush to engage the enemy. Smoke filled the air all around them. Thundering artillery rounds resonated below, whizzing across the rolling plain. At the top of a ridge, the main body of Wellington’s forces stood waiting. Griff’s horse shuddered beneath him; his legs slowly crumpled. He went down in a heap with Griff still in the saddle, with no time to leap free. When Bravo fell, Griff’s leg was caught under the wounded animal. His head hit hard when he landed on his side and he blanked out in total oblivion. He was pinned to the ground. A fragment of metal stuck out from the lean flesh underneath his armpit, imbedded between his ribs like a knife blade. A mortal-looking wound, bleeding profusely, the rivulets of carmine slowly seeped into the dark soil of France.
This time Griff was hurt. Badly. Again, he found himself sent to England. To either recuperate … or die.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Another month passed without a letter from the countess hounding her about her unconscionable, rag-mannered, and ungrateful behavior. Dulcie was determined to wait for Griffith Spencer’s return before breaking off their engagement. She could only hope and pray he was still alive.
The autumn chill was in the air. The crisp weather began to paint glorious colors on the trees. The arrival of autumn and realization that her birthday and Christmas couldn’t come too soon for her, it put new spring in Dulcie’s step as she went about on her brisk, daily walks.
She began to relax.
It was mid-October when the countess and Emma Trent arrived unexpectedly at Bonne Vista. Agina swept up the front steps of the manor house as if she owned the place, which in a sense, she still did. Sommers, the manor’s aged butler, had to look twice to make certain whom it was while the countess waited on the doorstep.
There was a flurry of excitement. Servants scurried around under Sommers’ orders, readying rooms for the new arrivals. The countess announced she would occupy her former chamber. There was a small room connected to hers for her lady’s maid.
It was mid-afternoon when Dulcie returned from one of her walks with Simon. She came through the rear garden to the manor and stopped briefly to chat with Denny who was pulling off dead rose heads from the bushes and trimming the overgrown evergreens.
“Ye’ve got a surprise waitin’ inside fer ye, Miz Dulcie,” he said with a wink.
Oh dear God, she thought, her heart jumping to ricochet against her rib cage. Has Griff returned from the war unhurt and whole? Oh, I hope so!
She allowed herself to stay calm and asked, “Oh? And what is that, Denny?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, but the old witch arrived half hour ago with bags and baggage.”
“What? Ack! The countess? Botheration! I never expected her to show up here.” A deep frown wrinkled her brow. “I wonder what she wants this time?”
“’Tis not up to me to know. But from what ye’ve let on to me, I’d guess she’s workin’ on some nasty scheme to bamboozle ye outta yer inheritance.”
“Well, Denny, I’m not going to let her get the best of me. My birth date is only a month away. After that, she no longer holds sway over me as my guardian or anything else I do.”
“I hope yer right, Miz Dulcie. I hope yer right,” he repeated, his words trailing off.
* * * *
Simon was at Dulcie’s side when Sommers alerted her that she had been summoned to greet her stepmother.
“Mother? What a surprise!” Dulcie said, stepping through the doorway to
the unused drawing room on the first floor of the red brick mansion.
“Dulcina!” Agina shrieked. “Must you bring that animal into my presence? You know how I abhor having the beast anywhere near me!”
Dulice leaned down and patted Simon’s head. “Sit here by the door like a good boy,” she ordered the dog with a gentle push on his hindquarters. Simon obeyed immediately, his wary gaze never leaving the countess.
Agina had ordered a tea tray shortly after arriving, and Trent was in the process of pouring. “I wondered where you keep yourself, young lady. Certainly not here in the manor house like a proper lady.”
Since it wasn’t a question, Dulcie considered it was unnecessary for her to reply.
Trent offered a sterling silver bowl to the countess who dipped out a heaping teaspoonful of sugar into her steaming tea and stirred. The tinkling of metal against china was the only sound in the room.
After a brief pause, Agina continued her scold. “Don’t you know of more ladylike pursuits with which to occupy your time instead of romping around the woods and fields with that animal?”
“Mother, please. I have been visiting the Bowdens. Mrs. Bowden gave birth to a new baby, a girl, a few days ago. I brought Bitsy and her family several loaves of newly baked bread and a cured ham. Jeremy has been helping with the older children, but he is not a very good cook.”
Dulice smiled in spite of herself. When she had stopped by the Bowden’s this afternoon, she had noticed the mess Jeremy left in Bitsy’s kitchen.
“Bitsy? What sort of name is that?”
“Bitsy is a pet name. Beatrice Bowden is my friend’s name. We’ve known each other for ages.”
“Harumph! You would be better served not to be so friendly with the tenants. Like servants, they all take advantage.”
“Mother, Jeremy is also a close friend of Denny Wall, and Bitsy grew up on my father’s estate as well. I trust them all implicitly.” Although the countess hadn’t asked her to sit, Dulcie slowly lowered herself into a cushioned chair adjacent to the large couch her stepmother occupied. Trent sat in an identical chair across from Dulcie.
“Please, Mother, let us not argue,” Dulcie went on. “Now then, I’m curious why you are visiting Bonne Vista. You haven’t done so for some time. Has something urgent come up?”
“No, but why shouldn’t I be here? I wish to see if our estate is well cared for, though the steward I hired to manage your father’s estate tells me it is quite prosperous. I’m glad to hear that.”
You would be, Dulcie thought, the terms of her father’s will snapping into place in her brain.
“Meanwhile, have you heard from my nephew…your erstwhile fiancé?” Agina sipped her tea, fixing her gaze on Dulcie who wasn’t offered refreshments by either her stepmother or Trent. “The dear boy never should have gone back to the army. It’s one sure way to get maimed or killed.”
I shouldn’t think this way, but what a horrid woman she is. She is all that is left of my family, but how I despise her and the way she treats me. From the moment we met, she made me feel as if I were totally unacceptable, dismissing me with a flick of her kohled eyelashes.
Dulcie truly was trying to make her stepmother feel welcome, at least be civil to her, but it was getting more difficult by the minute. This was her home, according to her father’s will, not Agina’s. It would be best if the woman stayed in London, at Eberley House, where she belonged.
“Somehow I think my naughty nephew has forgotten I exist, but I’m sure it is simply because of the horrendous things happening in Spain. The London papers report daily about missing men, the dead, and wounded, numbers growing greater everyday. I do wonder if Griff is even alive to marry you, Dulcina. That would be a pity.”
“No, Mother, I haven’t heard from…er…your nephew. But I’m certain either you or I would if something dreadful happened to him.”
I think I would feel it in my bones if Griff were dead. Oh, I pray he is all right. Somehow, I know he’s still alive—somewhere.
“I learned my nephew’s whereabouts from a friend of his, a Viscount Randolph Titus, a while back. Evidently, the viscount received a post from Griff after the scoundrel left without marrying you.”
“Oh! I wish I was told.”
“Don’t you know the dear boy thinks more of himself than he does of either of us? I daresay. I was never fond of Griff Spencer as a young lad.”
What a bouncer! I know all about your entire fabricated tale, Mother. You and Griffith Spencer are not related, and you have never known him as a lad. You met him only a week before I did.
“But then, Dulcina, you can’t be deeply enamored of him, right? Not after he ravished you? Well, are you?” The countess continued without waiting for Dulcie’s answer. “I, for one, believe the man is the worst kind of cad, even if he is my nephew.”
“No, of course I am not enamored of him. You were the one who said it were imperative that Griff and I marry after…well, after what happened. Are you telling me something different now?” Dulcie’s eyelashes flickered. “I hope not, Mother. But shall we move away from that unpleasant topic.” Dulcie forced a half smile onto her lips. “How long will you stay at Bonne Vista?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
Agina’s caustic tone grated on Dulcie’s ears. “No, not at all.” She knew she lied between her teeth.
“Harumph! I plan to stay until your birthday. What else? That would be…umm? November twenty-second. Am I correct?” The countess took her last sip of tea. “It is difficult to remember such unimportant dates, isn’t it? After that, well…we shall see.”
The countess placed her empty teacup and saucer on the tea tray. “It’s too bad that you didn’t try a cup of tea, Dulcina. Trent left some with your cook. I brought the special blend that I purchased. It recently arrived from China. I’ve brought a goodly supply with me, especially for our afternoon tea. Do try it tomorrow, and tell me how you like it.”
I would have, had you offered me a taste. I was rather thirsty after my long walk.
“Of course, Mother. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
With nothing more to say, the countess rose. Both Trent and Dulcie did likewise. “I think Trent and I will go to our rooms to rest before supper. I found the trip from London quite tedious.”
“Of course. May I show you up to your rooms?”
“No, I know my way around the manor if you recall.” The countess wrinkled her lovely nose, obviously in distaste. “But now, Dulcina, you must get that horrid animal out of my path so that I may pass.”
Dulcie stood up and hurriedly grabbed Simon by the collar and pulled him away from the doorway. The two women eyed the dog but exited the room without another glance. Letting go of Simon, Dulcie walked slowly back to the chair and lowered her rump into it again. “Botheration!” she grumbled in a low voice.
Simon had followed her, and she reached out and stroked the dog’s head where it lay in her lap. The brown eyes gazed up at her with what looked like commiseration. “She’s planning to stay here for more than a month, Simon!” Dulcie said, leaning down to whisper in a velvety ear. “How in the world will we live through it?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The countess kept the staff on pins and needles, scurrying around like frightened mice in order to do her bidding. She designated what was to be served at meals after a lengthy meeting with the butler, the housekeeper, and the cook. She explained to the upper servants as to what her usual routine would consist: breakfast with fresh-baked scones, hot from the oven, churned butter, marmalade, and hot chocolate laced with a dollop of heavy cream, served at precisely ten o’clock. Agina never ate at table in the morning. A tray was to be set for two, since Trent habitually broke the fast with her.
“The countess is very fussy about who delivers the tray to her room,” Agina’s lady’s maid told the butler. Later that day Trent sharply admonished one of the sprightly housemaids who had an Irish brogue. “Your ladyship prefers someone w
ho speaks decent English, and you will not do.” The little maid blushed and scurried away, almost in tears.
To a second housemaid, Trent warned, “The countess’s bath water must be delivered to her steaming hot by half after eleven, precisely.” And went farther, saying, “The countess makes her appearance below stairs for luncheon at one o’clock,” Trent informed the butler. “And will receive callers no later than four o’clock for tea. Supper is to be served at seven o’clock and on time.
“And of course,” Trent continued, “Lady Trayhern will look for a nicely ironed copy of The London Times when it arrives in the daily post. How else are we to keep up with the goings-on in London’s beau monde?”
Having heard the rumblings in the kitchen, Dulcie knew she had let the countess browbeat her, again. However, the countess’s decrees weren’t of major importance in her own daily routine.
Dulcie rose when it grew light enough to see the sun popping over the trees to allow Simon outside and oversee his morning run. She ate in the kitchen with the cook and housekeeper, and some of the housemaids, along with the butler if he hadn’t breakfasted already. Simon was granted a treat after his morning exercise, and left alone to chew contentedly on whatever the cook saved for him from last night’s meal.
If she were going visiting that day, Dulcie first freshened up, donned a warm shawl over her gown, added a bonnet, and started out with a sturdy walking stick and Simon beside her. She often stopped for a bite to eat and a saucer of tea with one of the tenants, so she rarely ate a noonday meal.
On days when the weather was not cooperative, Dulcie had a footman build up the fire in her father’s study. There she sat and read for hours on end. On sunny days she spent time in the garden or conservatory with Denny or his father.
Dulcie tried to avoid her stepmother and her lady’s maid, but today Dulcie was asked to join the countess for tea. She forced down her animosity toward her stepmother, ordered Simon to remain by the entrance to the parlor, and stepped inside. She knew better than to leave on her “working” clothes, so she had changed into something more fashionable.
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