Regency Belles & Beaux

by Michele McGrath

  “I’m so tired.”

  “Come away then.”

  “How can I? So many people need help. Have you spoken to Alice yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t tell her what you told me. It may not be true and it would only upset her.”

  “What should I do for the best?” Philip spoke his thoughts aloud. “If I could, I’d have both of you on the road to the coast. Since I can’t…” He ran his hands through his hair. “That soldier might be right and you’re better off here. If only we knew what was going on.”

  “If anyone knows, it will be Sir Charles Stuart. Wellington would send him word if the day was lost, surely? Why not go and ask him?”

  “That’s good advice.” Philip nodded. “But he may have already gone.”

  “If he has, that’s your answer,” Grace replied. “Come back as soon as you can, please. Whatever happens I want to face it by your side.”

  The city was in chaos. It was obvious that many persons had left in a decided hurry. Doors were open and piles of baggage stood unclaimed in the street. Crowds streamed in every direction, as if they did not know from which quarter the danger would appear. Philip pushed his way through, occasionally forced into the roadway and once having a brush with a badly driven wagon. Although the distance was not far, it took him over an hour to reach the British Ambassador’s dwelling. When he did so, it was to find the gate guarded by sentries and bonfires burning in the courtyard. He sent in his name and was shown into the hallway. Men walked about carrying sheaves of papers. Others talked together in hushed tones, as if they were at a funeral. A number of people huddled on the marble benches that lined the hall and Philip joined them. Then a lackey weaved through the throng and came over to Philip.

  “Follow me, my lord,” he said with a bow. Several of those waiting with him frowned and one man got to his feet as if he would utter a protest. The messenger steered Philip away, into a room where Sir Charles was talking to a few men who seemed to be merchants from the town by their dress. When Sir Charles saw Philip, he murmured a word to his companions, then left them and walked over.

  “What can I do for you, my boy?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you at such a time, sir, but my wife and sister are still in Brussels. Are you able to tell me what is happening and whether there is any danger to them?”

  The ambassador frowned. “I wish I could. The last news I had was that a battle has begun and that there has been great slaughter. Whether Wellington or Bonaparte has the upper hand, I can’t say.”

  “I see. Forgive me, but to the uninformed eye it seems as if the embassy has been disrupted and you are on the point of departing.”

  Sir Charles threw back his head and laughed. “Only prudent, my boy. The Frogs mustn’t catch us napping. If they break through, don’t want them reading things they shouldn’t. Not that I expect them to, you know. Wellington’s an old friend of mine and I trust him to win, even though Boney’s a formidable opponent.”

  “What would you advise me to do about the ladies, sir?”

  “Where are they at present?”

  “In the Convent of the Sacred Heart, helping to tend the wounded.”

  “Brave of them. Good girls. Mind you, I’d expect it from your father’s daughter. He had courage, your father. Leave them there. Should be out of harm’s way. If we’re romped, I’ll try to send you word in time to take them with me to the coast. Now don’t go spreading rumours that I expect us to be beaten. No such thing, but better to be safe than sorry. Must get back, my boy. Things to do.”

  Philip bowed. “Of course, sir. Thank you for your advice.”

  Philip made his way to the convent, stopping to buy some bread and wine from a sutler’s wagon near the market. He tucked the goods under his coat and hurried to find his wife and sister. He took them to a corner of the building and shared the food with them, before telling them what he had found out from Sir Charles.

  “Not that it’s very much but at least he hasn’t left yet,” he concluded.

  All three went back to the wards. It was a few hours later when they heard more wagon wheels and shouts coming from the courtyard. Grace hurried to see what was happening and was appalled at the sight which met her eyes. More men stumbled along the lane and into the building. Blood was everywhere, soaking their clothing and that of their helpers. Gone was the easy rhythm of earlier in the day. Now there was no more time to think. Lessons Grace and Alice had learned in the last two days served them well. There were so many casualties, a never-ending stream. Some had wounds to be tended, some had staggered for miles only to die on the doorstep. There was no time to rest, only time to do what one must. Grace knelt beside yet another casualty, leaning against the wall for support. The next thing she knew she was being elbowed aside by someone who was shouting,

  “Move over. Make room there.” Groggily she climbed to her feet as a stretcher was dumped in the place where she had just been. She swayed and a rough hand caught her and hauled her upright. She looked into a face made hideous by mud and blood. Then his lips pulled back showing white teeth as he smiled. Her heart began to pound and then he said,

  “Don’t faint, lassie. No time for that. Let’s get you outside.” He helped her out of the door into the courtyard where even more men were arriving, pushed her into a corner onto some straw. “That’s better. Have some of this.” He thrust a flask at her.

  “No I couldn’t.”

  “Yes you could. Don’t want you trampled in the crowd. My assistant’s in there, wounded. He and the others need you. Drink it up, doctor’s orders.”

  She looked at him then. A big man wearing the tatters of a kilt. He held the flask to her lips and she choked as the fiery liquid ran down her throat. He thumped her on the back before he pulled her to her feet.

  “Thank you, I think,” she spluttered at him.

  “Ye’ll do now. Come wi’ me. I can do with a helper in all this lot.”

  Grace did not expect her weary legs to move, but somehow they did. She kept working until the Scottish doctor relented and sent her off to sleep. The morning light was flooding the courtyard before she was able to find somewhere to curl up.

  “Grace!” Someone was shaking her by the shoulder.

  “Go away and leave me alone.”

  “Grace it’s me.”

  Slowly she forced her eyes open. “Philip?”

  “I must talk to you.” He shook her again.

  “What is it?”

  “Benson’s here. Edward’s been wounded. I’m going out to get him. Stay with Alice. Grace, do you understand me? Please wake up.”

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head willing herself to respond. “Help me up. Where is she?”

  He supported her until she forced her sore feet to walk unaided. Alice sat in a corner of the convent’s chapel, Benson at her side. He was no longer the smart trooper who had visited them two days ago. His uniform had rents in several places and dirty bandages were wrapped around his head and his left arm. Benson looked up with an expression of relief when he saw them coming towards him. He stood up allowing Grace to sit down and put her arm around Alice’s shoulders. Alice was white and her eyes staring.

  Philip bent down and kissed them both. “We’re going now. Say a prayer that we find him quickly.”

  “Philip, be careful. The French…”

  “I forgot to tell you. Wellington’s won and the Emperor’s fled. Don’t worry, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  That is how Grace and Alice learned the news of the great battle of Waterloo. At the time, neither could think about victory only the fate of one man who lay somewhere in the middle of the battlefield.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was a journey Philip never forgot and he relived it in dreams for many years to come. Benson led him through winding lanes and then across fields and woods until they saw the first sights of the battle. Wounded men and corpses lay where they had fallen, a few at the beginning but then more
and more, sometimes in heaps, some singly. There were ruined walls, broken wagons and the bodies of horses. Philip had believed himself to be strong and able to bear misfortune, but he was glad Benson could not see his face as they rode past. The slaughter had been spread over miles and it proved very difficult to find a way through the chaos. Occasionally they were challenged, but Benson’s uniform acted as their passport among the English troops. Philip’s fluent French was useful when they passed a line of French soldiers sadly making their way towards home or captivity. In that place of death, their only thought was survival.

  Eventually they came near to the spot where Benson had last seen Edward.

  “We charged, my lord, and the master was one of the leaders. My horse tripped and fell. By the time I remounted, I couldn’t see him or any of the others. I tried to follow him but there were Frenchmen in the way. Somewhere to the right here, perhaps.”

  They dismounted, leading the reluctant horses by the reins as they picked a twisting path through the carnage. They were not alone. Other people were searching, a few women among them and a man engaged in pulling out the teeth of the newly dead with a pair of pincers. By this time, Philip was so numb that the macabre sight did not move him. Hours later they discovered a heap of bodies which Benson identified as wearing the insignia of Edward’s regiment. They turned over the first corpse which proved to be someone he had known in Spain. None of these troopers were still alive and Philip gritted his teeth at the thought of bringing Edward’s lifeless body home to his sister. They were in the middle of another group when a thin voice called to them,

  “Benson!”

  Benson turned abruptly and then pulled aside a horse which had fallen on his rider, pinning the man’s legs to the ground. He knelt beside him.

  “Thompson, where are you hurt?”

  “My legs…”

  They were a mess, crushed and bloody, but the bleeding had obviously dried some time ago. Despite their need to find Edward, both men did what they could for the trooper, lashing his legs between two swords and giving him water.

  “Did you see where the Major went?” Benson asked him when they finished.

  “Over there. He was ahead of me but I lost sight of him and I can’t tell you what happened,” he replied waving his hands toward the left. “Oh my God, Benson, this hurts. Don’t leave me here to die.”

  Benson glanced at Philip who said, “We won’t, Thompson, but we have to find the Major. We know where you are and we’ll be back as soon as we’ve found him. Lie still for now.”

  Thompson was not convinced and his wail followed them as they left. Their search continued. A few more wounded lay among the dead, some of whom breathed their last even as the men passed by.

  “You can’t save them all, my lord,” Benson whispered as Philip faltered. “It’s getting dark. We’ll never be able to find the master by lantern light, not among all these others. If we come back again at dawn, we might have a chance.”

  Philip nodded and began to turn around. The space was small and the horse’s movement caused a pile of bodies to shift. A gleam from the lantern glinted on gold braid, catching Philip’s eye.

  “There’s an English officer here,” he said, bending down to look at the face.

  “The uniform’s right,” Benson said. “Glory to God, it’s the master, however did we manage to find him in all this mess?”

  “Lucky that I turned the horse when I did.”

  “Is he alive?”

  Edward’s face felt cold and clammy. Philip held his wrist, feeling for the pulse.

  “I think… he might be.” He opened the jacket and slid his hand inside. “There’s some warmth but he’s barely breathing. We must get him to a doctor.”

  Philip had brought a stretcher with him from the hospital, lashed to the side of his horse. They tied it between their mounts and laid Edward on top of it. Benson covered him with his coat. Then carefully they retraced their steps. The place where Thompson lay was near a tree whose broken stump protruded above the chaos. Fortunately, they had taken special note of it before they left and the shape was stark against the sky. They stopped and lifted the wounded man up in front of Benson. He fainted during this manoeuvre so they managed to make him fast before he regained consciousness. He slowed their journey, but neither of them could bear the thought of leaving him behind.

  While they had been searching, dressing stations had been set up in the fields beyond the battlefield. They found one of these, but there were many wounded lying on the ground outside waiting to be treated. Philip decided that Edward and Thompson would stand a far better chance of surviving if he took them to the convent, despite the additional length of the journey. They rode through the night and it was not until an hour after dawn that the weary horses stumbled into the convent’s courtyard with their burdens. The place was still busy, but willing hands unstrapped the stretcher and lifted Thompson down from the horse. The poor man had regained consciousness by this time and groaned mightily as he was carried away to have his wounds attended.

  Philip and Benson took their mounts to the stables, rubbed them down and fed them before going to find Edward. One of the doctors was working over him and looked up when Philip approached.

  “Will he live, doctor?” Philip asked.

  “Perhaps. He’s lost a lot of blood. I heard you brought this one in – why?”

  “Edward’s my sister’s husband. She’s here by the way and will want to see him.”

  “Not a good idea yet. Can’t have her fainting on top of everything else.”

  “She’s been helping on the wards. I doubt she’d faint.”

  “Well you can bring her, but everything’s different when it’s your family rather than a stranger. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Philip left Benson with Edward began searching for Alice. She was with Grace, feeding the patients in one of the outhouses. Grace saw him and got to her feet, causing Alice to look around and then jump up to face him.

  “He’s alive,” Philip immediately told her and she swayed, “but wounded.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Here. Benson’s with him. I’ll take you there.”

  “You go Alice, I can continue.” Grace glanced at her husband who shook his head slightly and she turned away, tears starting to her eyes.

  Grace remembered the next three days as a period of the greatest anxiety. In all that time Edward lay silent, unaware of the world around him. The doctors said that he had a long cut at the back of his skull, probably a glancing blow from a cavalry sabre, broken ribs and a bayonet slash on his right arm. The head wound was the most severe. One doctor even wondered aloud how Edward had managed to survive so long and to endure the journey from the battlefield.

  Alice became hollow eyed as she sat holding his hand and occasionally moistening his lips with water. Philip, Benson and Grace took turns to look after her, for she would not leave her husband for any but the shortest time. She had to be coaxed to eat and fell asleep only when her eyes involuntarily closed. This was never for long and never without starting instantly awake at the smallest noise.

  “She’ll become ill, if she doesn’t rest,” Philip said to Grace, late on the second evening.

  “She won’t truly relax until we have some sign that Edward will recover or…” she broke off the sentence abruptly.

  “… Or until he is dead?” Philip murmured and she nodded then quickly looked away.

  The change came on the morning of the fourth day. Grace had taken Alice’s place while she dozed beside the paillasse on which Edward lay. His eyes fluttered open for a second and then closed again. Grace sat rigid, wondering if she had imagined it. When he did it again, Alice saw him too.

  “Did he?” she asked and when Grace nodded, she burst into tears for the first time since he had been brought to the convent.

  Edward’s recovery was very slow, for he could not understand words or respond to the people around him. He knew who Alice was and liked to have her besid
e him. Later on, he recognised Benson although he could not say his name. As Edward improved physically, Philip arranged for him to be moved to a pleasant farmhouse outside Brussels, away from the bustle and noise at the convent. Little by little Edward’s memory returned and his injuries healed. He was able to walk in the woods and the fields with Alice by his side and Benson hovering nearby, ready to catch him if his strength failed. By the end of September, he was judged well enough to attempt the journey to England. A coach drove him slowly to the coast and their passages were booked on a merchant’s ship. They were not the only travellers. Other soldiers returning from the battle after recovering from their wounds made the crossing with them. Everyone agreed that they were lucky to be alive for, in the Duke of Wellington’s words, Waterloo had been a ‘damn close-run thing’.

  For once the unpredictable English Channel proved benign and the ship arrived in Dover after a quick and easy passage. Once there, a message was sent to London which resulted in the dispatch of Edward’s own travelling coach in charge of his servants. This vehicle was well sprung and, as the roads were firm, Edward was more comfortable than he had been since they left the farmhouse. They were three days on the road, driving slowly until they reached the Maitland residence.

  There the travellers were greeted by Lady Maitland, Edward’s stepmother, who almost fainted at his appearance. She also exclaimed over Alice, who still had not recovered her beauty after her ordeal. Edward’s young sisters Lizzie and Clara hugged him gently. Kitty, nearest to him in age and big with child, jumped at him like the hoyden she used to be.

  “But I am so glad you are safe,” she cried when she was immediately called to order.

  “If you knock him over, my dearest, he certainly won’t be,” Captain Roper, her husband, admonished her. He put one arm around her shoulders as he held out his other hand to Edward.