The Lost Love of a Soldier

by Jane Lark

  “Mama.” When it landed, he crawled off to collect it and bring it back for her to throw again.

  She heard the knocker strike the door downstairs. It hit hard, the sound running through the walls of the house.

  “John,” she called in a low voice, urging him back to her. Lieutenant Colonel Hillier was not at home. If it was someone calling for him, they would be turned away. But even so, her instinctive reaction was always to keep John close.

  Lieutenant Colonel Hillier was too unpredictable, especially when he’d been drinking. She was never sure when he would expect things from her, or what, or when he would be aggressive, or when he would be unbearably gentle, as if he truly thought it was love he showed her.

  Whatever he did to her only made her feel sick. She did not wish him to touch her at all.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and then came along the hall, before someone knocked on the door to her personal sitting room.

  “Ma’am.” It was one of the footmen.

  “Yes.”

  “There is a gentleman below; he wishes to see the woman living here.”

  Ellen looked up and stared at the closed door. The woman living here… Was that all she was, a nameless being? A body used for the gratification of Lieutenant Colonel Hillier and nothing else. She stood, almost in a trance. Then John turned, with the ball in his hand, holding it up triumphantly. “Mama!”

  She had a name.

  “Come, John,” she bent and whispered, and once she’d lifted him to her hip, she stroked a black curl off his brow. He was a strikingly handsome child. Her child. She wondered what Paul would have thought of him.

  Taking the ball from his hand, she bent and picked up one of his wooden horses instead. “Here, carry this and we shall go and see who is calling.” He immediately started chewing on his poor horse. He had six teeth so far. She checked them every day to see if a new one had come.

  When she opened the door the footman stepped back. “Ma’am.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are they wearing livery or a soldier’s uniform?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She frowned. “Is there a carriage outside?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Instead of leaving her sitting room she turned around, still carrying John, whose legs clung either side of her hip as she balanced his weight on her hand.

  There was a glossy black carriage outside the house and the coachman still sat on the box, waiting in the street below. A footman in non-descript black livery held the horses’ heads, as another waited near the carriage door.

  It would not be a servant bearing some message from Lieutenant Colonel Hillier then. It was someone of standing.

  But why would they ask to see her?

  She saw no coat of arms on the doors of the carriage.

  “Horsees.” John, pointed down into the street with his wooden toy.

  She looked at him, “Yes, darling, horses.”

  “Ma’am, what shall I say?”

  Ellen looked back at the footman. “Nothing. I will come down. Where is the visitor?”

  “In the drawing room.”

  “I’ll show myself in to see him. You may go.” The man turned and walked away as Ellen looked at John, her heart thumping. What was this now?

  “I suppose we should go and see who our mysterious guest is then, John. What do you think?”

  He smiled his lovely open-hearted smile. His affection for her shone in his eyes, even though he was too young to know what love meant, or to say it aloud, she knew he loved her as she loved him. “I love you…” she said it again, so he might learn, and then pressed another kiss on his temple before leaving the room, walking swiftly.

  Her heart raced as she descended the stairs looking at the closed doors leading into the drawing room. The footman had not waited in the hall, but returned to the servants’ quarters, so it was silent, and there was no sound from within the room.

  She looked at her son, who was busy entertaining himself with his wooden horse, his gaze transfixed upon it as he trotted it over her arm.

  She took a breath, her heart pounding out the beat of the marching drum, and then turned the handle with the hand which was not balancing John’s weight and pushed the door open. She stepped in, looking up.

  Ellen collapsed back against the door, and her fingers gripped John’s leg over tightly, causing him to squeal.

  “Papa…”

  He turned to face her. As soon as she’d seen the straight posture and black hair, she’d known it was him.

  His intent silver gaze studied her for a moment only, but then fell to John, and stopped, staring as a moment ago she’d watched John stare at his toy horse.

  She could not explain the muddle of overwhelming joy, fear and intense embarrassment. She could not remember who she had been the last time she’d faced him in a room. Two years ago when she’d run away from home to marry Paul, she’d been little more than a child. Had it only been two years? So much had happened to her. But her time in hell was over now. “You came…”

  “Let me take the child.” He reached out. Pain tore her apart- relief. He had come for them, to take them home to safety. Tears brimmed in her eyes and poured over as the ache in her heart and her throat became too much. She wiped them away. He would not wish to endure emotion. He would think it weak.

  “Oh, Papa, I am–” she let him take John, and smiled as he interrupted.

  “I do not expect your gratitude. I am taking him home…”

  He continued talking, but Ellen struggled to hear. There was a woman in the room with him. She stepped forward to take John.

  Ellen’s brow creased in confusion.

  “Taking who home?” Her voice sounded pathetic. “I don’t understand, Papa, have you come for us, as I asked?” She looked into his eyes and saw no love or emotion for his child, as she felt love and emotion for John.

  “I have come to fetch my grandson. I am…” Again his words just seemed to get lost in the room.

  “Papa?”

  As the woman carried John away, her father spoke, his voice dropping. “Stop calling me that. I am no longer that to you.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “I will have nothing to do with a soiled woman. You are an insult now.”

  Still not understanding, Ellen whispered in return, “I am your daughter.”

  “Not now. You are a whore and nothing beyond it. You are dead to me. But the child is my heir … ”

  Oh my God. The truth crashed in on her, as though he’d slapped her face with it. He was taking John away, but not her. She turned and rushed from the room. The woman was already in the street, about to lift John up into the carriage. Ellen reached for her son. Thank God the woman did not fight her.

  Tears clouded Ellen’s vision and wet her cheeks as she pressed her head to John’s, holding him close and tight, even though he hated to be coddled and was now complaining bitterly. “Nothing is wrong, my darling, you are safe,” she whispered to his ear, rocking him gently and taking him back into the house. The woman followed.

  Her father stood in the hall.

  “You cannot… I will not let you take him.” Ellen pressed John’s forehead to her shoulder as he wailed, gripping his precious toy horse.

  “And you think you have a choice? Would you bring him up here in a house of sin?”

  Pain cut deep into Ellen’s heart with a knife thrust.

  “This is not a place for a child. I can give him a decent life, education, and I can protect him from this.” His hand swung out as disgust crossed his face.

  She clung harder to John.

  “Have sense. The woman is a nursemaid, she can feed the child at her breast while I take him back to England, and there he shall have the house and grounds to grow up in, and be secure. He may learn to manage what will be his one day.” He looked at her harder. “A duke cannot have a mother who has sold her body. I will not leave him with a wh
ore.”

  “I did not… I am not…”

  He pulled out a rolled parchment from an inside pocket of his coat. “I’ve had this document drawn up, confirming you relinquish any right to the boy–”

  “What?”

  “You must have nothing to do with him, else he will be damaged by your sin.”

  There was a crushing emptiness inside her.

  “Have sense. Think of the child…”

  She cradled John’s head, as he fidgeted and fought to be free. More tears slipped from her eyes into his soft hair, making it damp. How could she let him go?

  Think of the child… A duke cannot have a mother who has sold her body… in a house of sin. I can give him a decent life, education, and protect him from this…

  If she kept John, how would she hide what she’d become? How could she keep him safe here? What would happen when he was older? And it was true; where would she find the money for education?

  She held him still, whispering into his ear. “Mama loves you. Mama loves you so much…”

  But if she really loved him then she would do the best thing for him, and her father was right – the best thing for John was to let him go.

  New tears flooding her eyes, she nodded at her father. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word yes.

  Hate burned in her heart, tearing at her soul, as the woman moved forward.

  Unable to speak for the pain in her throat Ellen let the woman take John, and turned to accept the parchment from her father’s hand. She took it to a small desk across the room, and found a quill and ink. Her father came and stood behind her as she signed her name. Mrs Eleanor Harding. She did not even remember who that woman was.

  She blotted her signature and moved aside, leaving the quill in the inkwell for him. He signed the paper too. Then called the nursemaid forward to make her mark.

  Ellen took John back, and balancing him at her waist, looked into his blue eyes. She brushed his hair back from his brow as his gaze met hers. “You are to be good,” she whispered. “And you are to always remember how much I love you. I am not letting you go because I do not, but because I do…” Her quiet words stirred locks of his hair as her voice broke and she whispered to him. “You will grow up to be clever and wise, John.”

  His fingers lifted and touched her lips, then the tears on her cheeks. He did not understand.

  She swallowed back more tears, though more still leaked from her eyes.

  “Take the child.” Her father barked.

  The nursemaid moved closer. Ellen’s heart broke, shattering into tiny pieces. She let the woman lift John from her arms, swearing to herself that this would not be the end; that one day she would have him back.

  “You are at least still sensible,” her father stated coldly.

  She wished to slap him for his insensitivity, but she did not. This was merely another emotion to be buried deep and trapped somewhere it could never be let out again.

  “That is resolved then.”

  Ellen’s tears ran even more freely. Then she begged in a quiet voice. “Will you not take me with you too? I do not… I am afraid here…”

  He only stared at her, with his cold inhuman look. Then he turned away. “Take the boy to the carriage.”

  He left the room after the nursemaid who carried John.

  Ellen followed; walking through the hall and out into the street. “Let me hold him one last time?” Her voice was quiet but desperate.

  He at least did not deny her, but waved a hand for the woman to allow it.

  Ellen held John as tightly as it was possible to do, and smelt the sweet scent of his hair. Then her fingers ran over his face as he looked at her with large eyes, not understanding. “I will miss you. I love you.”

  “Mama…” was all he said as the nursemaid reached to take him back.

  Her father did not even look at her as he climbed into the carriage after the maid, leaving Ellen standing alone in the street.

  A footman closed the door, then climbed up onto the back of the coach.

  The pain in her heart tore at her, unbearable and vicious. It was lacerating. The carriage pulled away. She’d thought when Paul had died, she’d felt as empty and heart sore as it was possible to feel, but now…

  Her fingers clasping either elbow, she stood and watched until the carriage disappeared about the corner of the street. She swore to herself, “I will have you back, John, I will ensure you always know how much I love you, and I will have you back…”

  Author Note

  The truth in the story. The 52nd had been posted to America, after the end of The Peninsular War, and having spent the summer in Britain, sailed as far as Cork in January 1815. They were stranded there waiting for the weather to improve for weeks.

  When word came that Napoleon had escaped Elba, they were ordered to Ostend and then to Brussels.

  I was extremely surprised when I learned the sheer volume of men who fought in the battle of Waterloo, over two hundred thousand men took part and twelve thousand were killed.

  As for the 52nd …

  They had been brought around to take the last of the French Imperial Guard, who were making a final surge on the Allied army. There was a fierce firefight, that only lasted for four minutes, but during that brief moment, right at the end of the battle, one hundred and fifty men from the 52nd (Oxfordshire) Regiment of Foot died.

  We will remember them

  *

  To find out what happens to Ellen after this, read The Illicit Love of a Courtesan and turn over for a sneak peek at Chapter One…

  The Illicit Love of a Courtesan

  ‘Pure, unadulterated romance.’ BestChickLit.com

  ‘The romance pulls at the heartstrings.’ 4.5* RT Book Reviews

  ‘Romantic, sensual and heartbreaking.’ bookworm2bookworm

  Chapter One

  Perfectly positioned to view one of the ton’s fairest sons, Ellen’s eyes were drawn from Lord Gainsborough’s playing cards to the man seated across the table—Lord Edward Marlow, the second born son of the tenth Earl of Barrington. He was newly in town and therefore a novelty, an enigma. Every mistress and courtesan in the room had been watching him all evening and she was no exception.

  Lord Edward’s long, manicured fingers moved, poising above his cards. Ellen openly stared, the low light in the room and its stale hazy air, thick with tobacco smoke, hiding her scrutiny from the watching crowd.

  His hair was dark brown and gentle curls tumbled from his crown, licking his forehead and the high collar of his black, tailed evening coat, Brutus style. In the candlelight thrown by the chandelier above, his hair glistened with a variety of rich, roasted coffee bean shades.

  His head lifted and she indulged her eyes with his severe yet perfect, profile. He exuded authority. The man was sleek strength and sophistication. The muscle of his jaw tight, his lips rose as if to smile, but hesitated as though some thought stopped him, and she saw doubt or indecision pass across his expression. Then his eyelids lifted and his dark, intense gaze clashed with hers, a pale blue, more like slate-grey.

  Embarrassed and a little flustered, Ellen’s appraisal fell to his hands.

  His fingers teased out a card and threw it to the table while she felt his gaze burn into her.

  Desire stirring, she pictured the pleasure those fingers could give a woman and the air in the room was suddenly hot and thick, despite the cool winter night outside.

  Ellen lifted her open fan and fluttered it gently to cool her skin as her gaze drifted back to his face. He was still watching her. One dark eyebrow rose and his broad lips smiled. Her gaze hovering on his, she mirrored his smile, her heart pounding as though she was already coupling with him. She imagined his mouth on hers and a hot blush touched her skin. The sweeps of her fan increasing, her imagination drifted on towards indecency—impossibility—picturing tangled limbs and warm flesh.

  Light caught the jet-black pools in his eyes, as though he saw the pictures forming in her thoughts and
his captivating smile twisted with implied agreement. It turned his features from handsome to utterly devastating.

  A hot flush spread like a caress down her throat to her breasts and lower, racing across her skin.

  “I shall raise you a hundred, Marlow. Will you match me?” Lord Gainsborough’s brusque challenge sliced through the silent communication she shared with Lord Edward.

  His gaze tore away, his blank expression cutting her, apparently dismissing their flirtation. Instead it focused upon Lord Gainsborough.

  Ellen stood behind Lord Gainsborough and slightly to his side, in her protector’s shadow, oppressed. Oppression was Lord Gainsborough’s pleasure and Lord Gainsborough’s pleasure was her life. Her gaze fell to the seam at the centre of the back of his black evening coat. The pressure of his bloated body strained it. Excess was another of his passions.

  Revulsion stirred. She despised the man—her protector. Yet preference was irrelevant. She was tied to him, trapped by him. He had blackmailed her into obedience five years ago and now here she stood, her soul and conscience dead while her body lived on, fulfilling his dissolute desires. She was empty, a vessel, deaf to the voice of morality and blind to shame.

  Laughter hovered behind her closed lips, ringing in her thoughts, a sound of silent madness.

  Lord Gainsborough liked flaunting his pretty vessel—his precious trophy. Sometimes he let others touch, taunting them with what they couldn’t have. Wickedly she wondered how he would react if she let someone of Lord Edward’s ilk touch her. He’d be furious.

  Hiding her self-deprecating smile behind her fan, Ellen glanced over its top at the gorgeous man across the table. Was it very wrong for her sinful body to want a man like that? How would it feel? How would it feel to be free from her so-called protector for an hour or two and play his games with a man of her choice? Choice was a holy grail; a cup fallen woman longed to drink from. And she would love defying Lord Gainsborough.

  As though pulled by an invisible cord winding between them, Lord Edward’s gaze lifted to her while he contemplated Lord Gainsborough’s call. His eyes widened, darkening, perhaps reading hers, and what appeared to be amusement twitched his lips before he looked back at his cards.