by Allison Lane
She shifted position to lean against a boulder. She needed a plan, a comprehensive one that would map out her future. There had to be something she had not yet considered. She tried to drive all thought away for a moment so she could start with a clean slate. Her eyes drifted closed as the warmth of the sun relaxed her tense shoulders, and she slept.
* * * *
“You will need to hurry if you plan to change before the picnic, your grace,” warned Emily when she discovered Norwood idly perusing a newspaper in the library. Four days had passed since the squire’s dinner, yet nothing had changed. Thorne was again castigating her.
“I will not be accompanying you this afternoon,” announced Norwood.
“You jest, I perceive,” she said lightly, almost desperate over his continued indifference. “It is a beautiful day, and the view from Sutter’s Ridge is delightful.”
“I never jest, Lady Emily.”
“Is your injury still bothering you?”
He looked at her brown eyes and read her anxiety. But the prick of conscience was gone almost before he recognized it. “I suppose I could claim that as an excuse, but it would be false,” he stated coldly. “The truth is that I deplore picnics, and I never do anything I dislike.”
“Nor should you, your grace,” she quickly agreed, slipping silently from the room.
Norwood stared at his paper without seeing it. He was behaving disgracefully, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was perfectly true that he disliked picnics, but it was also true that a house guest was duty bound to participate in the activities arranged by his hosts, especially when he was the guest of honor. Yet he had done very little with the company. Why? He had come to Thornridge to settle his betrothal. Yet after a week in residence, he had not done so. He might not enjoy feeling pressured, but digging in his heels and ignoring his duty was just as bad. He was allowing outside events and lesser people to dictate his behavior. And that was not what his birth and position demanded.
The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return to Norwood Castle and the estate business that always awaited him. Harvest was under way, and though he never participated in person, he preferred to keep a close eye on things through his bailiff. Then there was the hunting season. He would be spending it at a friend’s box near Melton this year rather than at his own and was due there within the month.
Laughter echoed in the hall as the guests departed. His guilt grew over remaining behind. Setting aside the paper, he ordered a horse and went to change into riding clothes. But he did not, after all, follow the rest of the party. Aimlessly trotting in quite the opposite direction, he again recounted his need for marriage and his reasons for choosing Lady Emily Sterne.
Half an hour later, his contemplations were interrupted by a horror-filled scream. Pushing his horse to a gallop, he headed toward the river. What disaster had befallen now? He had never lived through so ill-wished a summer.
Sobs punctuated continued screaming, drawing him to a clearing. Mrs. Morrison writhed on the ground, her face twisted in agony. It took him a moment to realize that she was neither ill nor injured, but was dreaming. An unaccustomed wave of commiseration washed over him as he dismounted and knelt beside her. He had suffered nightmares regularly after Annabelle’s death and again since the fire.
“Wake up, Mrs. Morrison,” he ordered softly, shaking her shoulder.
“No!” she screamed again. “Jack!”
He shook harder. “You are dreaming. Wake up.”
She shuddered a moment, then warily opened her eyes. Never had he witnessed such terror and pain. “What happened?”
“You were dreaming. It sounded an unpleasant experience.”
Shakily sitting up, she battled to pull herself together. “I am all right now, your grace. You needn’t concern yourself..” She looked around as if to identify her surroundings. “I must return home. This is not a place I should be.”
He pulled her to her feet, then moved aside to sit on a boulder. “Surely you can stay a moment. What troubles you so? Nightmares are seldom pleasant, but they can often be eased by sharing.”
“No, they are not,” she agreed, staring blankly across the stream.
“I have no wish to force you,” he continued calmly. “But I owe you much, both in gratitude for your medical attentions and in apology for my arrogance on the occasion of our first meeting.”
“It did not bother me for long. Stress often affects people in strange ways,” she observed softly.
“I cannot claim that excuse,” insisted Norwood. “I had fallen into the habit of considering myself omnipotent. You had every right to remind me that the assumption was false.”
She smiled. “I should also apologize for coercing you. I fear that arrogance makes me dig in my heels and fight. It was unconscionable to force you into so gruesome a task.”
“You are forgiven.”
“I trust you have recovered from both the fire and your mishap of last week.”
“Completely, save for a slight scar on my left hand..” He drew off his glove to gaze at the puckered skin.
Amanda walked over to glance at it and nodded. “It looks better than I expected and should fade almost completely in time.”
“I use it as a reminder to think before I speak,” he murmured. “But enough of my problems. What is troubling you today?”
“The usual..” She shrugged. “I made the mistake of looking for my husband’s body after Waterloo, not wanting the inevitable looters to desecrate him. It was stupid, of course. Jack had warned me never to do so. But I was not particularly rational that day. The memories remain.”
Norwood stared. “Did you find him?” The question was out before he had time to think.
She nodded. “At least it was quick. Those who died in the hospital over the following weeks had a much harsher time of it.”
“What happened?”
Amanda dropped onto another boulder several feet away and turned to stare across the river. Her words were quiet, almost emotionless. “The battle was the worst we had ever encountered. Three days of hell, though the first two proved to be merely a prelude. I rarely stayed with the baggage train at such a time, usually positioning myself with the spare horses so I could be available to bind up wounds that were not severe enough to require a surgeon. Waterloo was terrible – far worse than Badajoz, which was awful enough itself. There was a time about mid-afternoon when we honestly thought all was lost. Many of the Belgian troops had long since fled the field, the French kept coming, and there were no reserves to throw into the fray. Thank God Blücher finally arrived.”
Norwood remained silent, though his attention was riveted on her words. Who would allow a woman so close to a battle? Her husband must have been crazy.
Amanda’s voice caught. “The worst aspect of combat was the paucity of news. We got only the briefest reports as grooms exchanged horses or the wounded moved past. Time always crept slowly during battle, the wavering between hope and fear overshadowed by screaming boredom because there was so little a woman could do. Waterloo was the worst of all. The battlefront stretched for miles so it was impossible to see anything. Just after the Germans arrived, Major Collins limped in for a new mount and mentioned that he had not seen Jack in some time. I knew then that he was gone. As soon as the French retreated, I brushed off Burt’s objections and went to look for his body. By that time I would have heard if he had been injured, so I knew he was out there somewhere. I can’t explain it even now, but I had to find him.”
“I understand,” he murmured when she stopped to regain her composure. “You had to see for yourself exactly what had happened.”
She glanced at him in surprise before again turning her eyes away. “Yes. As I said, it was quick.”
“And so you threw your energies into nursing the wounded?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “It was the only way I could retain any semblance of sanity. There was nowhere else I could go. And the doctors were so overwhelmed with
our massive casualties, they welcomed any assistance. I spent four months in Brussels, working in the hospitals. When the last contingent came home, I did, too.”
“The nightmare includes that? Or is it just the battlefield?”
“The battlefield. I heard what Wellington wrote in his dispatch – Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won. And he was right. So many friends died that day. The carnage was unbelievable. Tony. Robin. Eddie, whose wife had just written to report that she was increasing. Philip, who had joined the army only a month before with no idea of what war was really like. And they weren’t clean deaths. Ned was the worst. I have no idea where his body was. There was only his head....”
Norwood swallowed bile, feeling suddenly inadequate to this situation.
“Poor Jack,” she continued woodenly, so caught up again in the nightmare that she forgot the duke’s presence. “He lost an arm and half of his face. I could identify him only by the scars on the remaining cheek. Most of him was hidden beneath his horse. I’m not sure how much of the blood was Jack’s and how much was Charger’s.”
Norwood gagged, controlling himself with great difficulty.
Amanda suddenly came to herself, horrified that she was relating appalling tales to a near stranger. “I am sorry, your grace,” she stated firmly, rising to leave. “I must have lingered in the dream world. You have no need to hear such gruesome stories.”
“I can understand why such sights would trigger nightmares, but surely they will fade in time,” he suggested. “As you said, it was quick. He could have felt nothing.”
“True, but I will never know whether I caused his death..” Her voice was the merest whisper.
“How could you possibly be responsible for a soldier’s death in battle?” he demanded incredulously.
She shrugged. “One has to remain alert at all times. We had parted in anger three days before..”
She stopped talking, but Norwood had no trouble completing the thought. She feared that he might have been distracted by memories of an argument. If he could ease her mind, perhaps it would repay some of what he owed her.
“I did not know your husband,” he began slowly. “How long had he been a soldier?”
“We were on the Peninsula from the first expedition to Portugal in 1808, but he had been in the army for six years before our marriage. He was home recovering from the South American campaign when we met.”
He nodded. “He had survived many engagements, then. A professional soldier was not likely to allow errant thoughts into his head when in the heat of battle.”
She frowned, but finally nodded. “That is true. Jack enjoyed a challenge. He was never so alive as after a fight. The army was his life.”
“What was it like on the Peninsula?” he asked softly, hoping to turn her mind to happier times.
“Boring,” she replied without thought before straightening in surprise. “Actually, no more so than any other life. Winter quarters were the worst, because there was so little to do. We organized dances and theatricals and any other events we could think of to stay busy. Jack and his friends spent the days coursing hares – Harry Smith kept a pack of Spanish greyhounds. It was always nice to supplement rations with rabbit. Pay was so badly in arrears that we never had any money..”
“I would think that summers would have been worse with the army off on campaign.”
She turned to stare in astonishment. “I was always with them. Who else was available to see after blisters and boils and burns? The surgeons had enough to do.”
Norwood felt a fool. Major Humphries had mentioned her nursing only four nights before. He turned the talk to the sights she had seen and the local customs of Spain and Portugal. With the shift to lighter subjects, she relaxed, proving to be a witty conversationalist and astute observer. As her humor improved, he could see the shadows departing from her brown eyes.
“I think the funniest thing I ever saw was on march one summer,” she offered some time later. “John Kincaid had been on picket duty much of the previous night. By the time we made camp that afternoon, he was dropping in his boots, not even bothering with dinner before falling asleep. But not half an hour later a pair of frisky donkeys romped through, tangling themselves in his tent ropes. The tent rolled up with him inside, the whole writhing mass of them tumbling down the hill. John was swearing luridly enough to burn even Burt’s ears so we knew he was unhurt, but everyone was laughing too hard to help the poor man.”
Norwood’s dark eyes twinkled, though he managed only a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth.
“That reminds me of an incident from my schooldays,” he offered. “I had an amazingly pompous classmate at Eton who alternated between looking down a patrician nose at the entire universe and bragging about how much better he was at any activity than the rest of us. My own arrogance is paltry in comparison.”
Amanda shook her head in mock despair.
Norwood continued. “Wrexham challenged his claims one day. He was a year behind us but had more standing, being a real lord while the rest of us were merely heirs or younger sons. But he was also an inveterate prankster.”
She giggled. “What did he do?”
“Wrexham’s groom had brought up his curricle, as we were all headed home for long break. Even at fifteen, he was an outstanding whip, who always drove very spirited cattle. Nolly went into his usual routine, claiming he could drive anything, so Wrexham dared him to prove it. I don’t know how he managed it, but the next thing we knew, a terrified Nolly was caught behind two galloping horses, curricle nowhere in sight as he bumped across the commons on his derrière.”
Amanda burst into laughter. “I trust no one was hurt.”
“Nothing but his sensibilities. Nolly had always been roly-poly and is now downright corpulent. When I saw him last spring, he rivaled the Regent in girth.”
“Dear Lord, you aren’t referring to Lord Wedgeburn, are you?”
“Do you know him?” he asked in surprise.
“Hardly. I don’t move in those circles, but I met him in Paris after Napoleon’s abdication. His braggadocio was excessively annoying. A more odious toad cannot possibly exist, begging your pardon. I should not insult one of your friends, I suppose.”
“Not a friend, I assure you. And he has indeed grown despicably obnoxious.”
“That’s all right, then,” she said, gathering her shawl close and turning her feet toward the road.
“May I escort you home?” he asked, noting that the afternoon was waning. The picnickers would be returning soon.
Her good humor vanished. “There is no need, your grace,” she said. “I should not even be here, but I had to stop briefly at the dower house and succumbed to temptation by taking the short cut back to town. It is a pretty walk, though not a public thoroughfare, I fear. I trust you won’t report me.”
“Not at all..” He accepted her refusal with relief, already wondering what had prompted him to make the offer.
She bade him farewell and strode briskly away.
Why had he stayed to talk to the woman after discovering that she was unharmed? Such conduct was beneath the dignity of the Duke of Norwood. An examination of his motives shocked him. He had succumbed to curiosity, then been touched by her story. It had elicited emotion in his heart for the first time in years. And he could not remember when he had held such an open conversation with anyone. The man who had sat in that clearing offering comfort to a commoner was little different from the frivolous youth he had once been, that absurd creature who had led him down the path to disaster.
It did not help that he found the woman attractive. And that was another thing he could not explain. She was nothing out of the ordinary – brown hair, brown eyes, unfashionably tall, nondescript features – and could never be touted as a beauty. Yet she drew him. She radiated a force that evoked unnatural behavior even in him, pulling him away from more than thirty years of training in propriety.
Memories of the fire returned.
She was definitely a witch.
He shivered.
It was time he quit shilly-shallying and completed his business at Thornridge Court. It was unconscionable that he should feel attracted to a soldier’s widow who had spent years doing things no respectable female would even consider.
By the time the picnickers returned, Norwood and Thorne had come to an amicable agreement. If Emily accepted him, the betrothal would be officially announced at a grand ball a fortnight hence. As expected, the wedding would take place following the next Season.
* * * *
Amanda walked home almost in a trance. Her conversation with Norwood was shocking at the very least. She had told him things she had never divulged to another living soul. Why?
The question bedeviled her. There was something about the man that demanded confidences. Only one other person had ever exerted that effect on her – Jack. She remembered how Jack had elicited her tale that long-ago morning when her father’s announcement shattered her life. And now Norwood had done the same.
It must never happen again. It was bad enough to talk about her unladylike experiences, but to a duke of the realm? She could never face the man again. Yet there was little chance of avoiding it. Her father had decreed that she remain in Middleford. Norwood intended to marry her sister. Even without an official family tie, they were bound to meet many times in the course of their lives.
The duke’s own behavior had been unlike his usual demeanor, she realized suddenly. Where was the arrogance and disdain to which she was now accustomed? He had started by waking her from a nightmare when he could easily have passed her by, and had then stayed to offer solace and talk her black mood away. Neither action accorded with his customary conduct. It reinforced her suspicion that a quite different man lurked beneath the surface.
A picture of Reginald Potter suddenly floated before her eyes. Goodness! She hadn’t thought of the boy in years. He had been a young ensign when they first landed in Portugal, as arrogant a lad as she had ever met. It wasn’t until Vimeiro that she discovered that he used the arrogance to cloak fear, both of battle and of failing to acquit himself in the tradition of a long line of military Potters. Reginald had done well that day, though he later died in the retreat to Corunna.
