Quadrille (The Love and Temptation Series Book 5)

by M C Beaton

  But the bit about hearing the bullock carts in his dreams she had gleaned from overhearing him talk at a party to one of his brother officers, Peter Bennet. That would do.

  “Why, my dear, Lord Hubert told Captain Peter Bennet and that young fellow told me. I don’t like to listen to gossip, and that’s a fact, but that there Peter was forever talking to me like I was his mother.”

  Mary blinked. Peter Bennet was an extremely elegant and fastidious young man. She could not for a minute imagine him confiding in anyone, let alone Mrs. Witherspoon. But she did, however, dismally feel as if the whole of Brussels knew of her husband’s innermost thoughts and plans while she, his wife, had only been treated to a few common pleasantries.

  The day was hot and hazy and Mary reflected that she had never seen anyone perspire with such unembarrassed abandon as Mrs. Witherspoon. Little rivulets ran down from her forehead, across her chins and joined somewhere at the base of the last chin forming a river which plunged down into the chasm formed by her cleavage. Mary was all at once too tired to school her expression. Open distaste was mirrored in her eyes. Mrs. Witherspoon caught the look as she raised her head from a dish of tansy pudding and her brain began to churn. She would lose this little lady if she did not find some way to make Lady Mary obliged to her.

  All at once the hot stillness of the day was broken by a muffled boom.

  “What’s that!” cried Mary, starting to her feet. “Thunder?”

  Again it sounded and suddenly the street below became alive with the sound of running feet and shouting voices.

  Mary leaned out of the window. “Qui se passe?” she yelled down to the fleeting figures. One Brussels shopkeeper heard her cry and twisted up his head. “Le feu,” he screamed. “Le feu, madame! La bataille commence!”

  As the sounds of the cannonade boomed even clearer, Mary ran down the stairs and out into the street completely forgetting about Mrs. Witherspoon, and joined the hustling frightened crowd as they streamed towards the Namur Gate to look out across the fields in the direction of Quatre Bras.

  All afternoon she stood there, listening in dread to that dull boom boom boom which sounded across the heavy air like a death knell. Rumors flew about her. Napoleon had driven a wedge between the British and their allies the Prussians, and he was taking his time to massacre them both. At last, at sunset, the noise of the cannonade died away. Trembling from worry and fatigue, Mary returned to her lodgings.

  But she was still not to have her home to herself. Lucy Godwin was waiting for her, her pretty face drawn and pale.

  Mary felt a rush of pity for her. “Do not look so, Mrs. Godwin,” she urged. “Our men will come home victorious, never fear.”

  “I’m not worried about Freddie,” said Lucy, hitching a callous shoulder. “He’s used to battles. The thing is—how are we going to escape? Every horse and carriage has been taken and the few seats that are left are going for fabulous sums.”

  Mary stared at her amazed. “But surely you would not contemplate leaving before your husband gets back? How can you dream of leaving, not knowing what has happened to him?”

  “I think you’re very cold and unfeeling,” pouted Lucy. “You promised Freddie you’d look after me, yes you did, for he told me so. And looking after me doesn’t mean leaving me here to be raped by a lot of Frenchies.”

  “But what can I do? We have no carriage. I have my own horse and you are welcome to that.”

  “I couldn’t ride all the way out of here on my own,” protested Lucy. “It must be a carriage or nothing. Mr. Witherspoon, ’tis said, bought a great deal of horses and at least two carriages apart from his own, and he is selling seats in them at fabulous prices which I cannot afford. You are very rich…”

  “My husband has control of any money we have,” said Mary stiffly. “I do not inherit any wealth until my parents die.”

  “But the Witherspoons are friends of yours…”

  “I did not set eyes on them until last night.”

  “Oh, you’re horrid,” said Lucy, beginning to sob. “And so I shall tell Freddie.”

  “I shall, however, go and see Mr. Witherspoon,” went on Mary quietly, “and see what I can do.”

  Lucy’s tears dried like magic.

  The two women had to walk on foot since neither had a carriage and all vehicles of any description had been bought in order to escape the doomed city. The British did not quite realize that the people of Brussels were mostly pro-French and delighted in spreading rumors of Napoleon’s successes. The roads from the city were jammed with the carriages of society who had believed up to the very last minute of the ball that Wellington would succeed as he had always done, but no longer had any faith in that great leader.

  The Witherspoons had a suite of rooms in the Hotel du Parc. They were delighted to see the ladies, especially Lady Mary. Mrs. Witherspoon and her husband had been plotting all day for some way in which to be of service to young Lady Mary so that they should have subsequent claims on her society in London. As soon as Mary asked for a carriage seat on Lucy’s behalf, they brightened considerably. Mr. Witherspoon drooped an eyelid at his wife, which was his signal to tell her to leave things to him. He led Mary into an adjoining room and studied her thoughtfully although the ingratiating leer never left his face. The girl looked exhausted—and vulnerable.

  “I shall put it to you plain, my lady,” began Mr. Witherspoon at last. “I have a seat left in a carriage which is to leave Brussels in an hour’s time. Now I will gladly let Mrs. Godwin have it and at no cost whatsoever.”

  “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, partic
ularly 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.

&nbs
p; 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.