A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

She managed to say brightly, ‘Oh, good heavens, it was never serious.’

‘But I was told, you and he—on Thursday night—’

‘Yes,’ she broke in quickly. ‘I was a little...reckless. That is why I must close the school. I did not behave as I ought.’

He came closer.

‘Oh, Mary, I am sorry.’

‘No, please, Bertrand. Do not pity me. I knew what I was doing, but it was very foolish of me, so I must go away.’

He took her hands. ‘You do not need to do that. You could stay and marry me. I will—what is it you English say?—I will make an honest woman of you.’

‘You are very kind, Bertrand, thank you, but, no.’

‘Ah, because your radical beliefs will not allow it?’

She shook her head. She had been prepared to compromise to marry Randall and she was surprised at how happily she would have done so—clearly that was not the reason she could not marry Bertrand.

‘Because I do not love you, you see, and I could never marry without love.’

Or trust. She could not marry a man who did not trust her, even if he was an earl.

‘Of course.’ He dropped her hand and stepped away. ‘When will you go?’

‘I do not know. When I have settled my affairs. When this war is over. In the meantime, please send your wounded soldiers to my house and we will look after them as best we can.’

‘I know you will. Thank you, Mary, and remember, I will always be here for you, if you need me.’

With a little bow he was gone and she could only be thankful for his forbearance.

* * *

Within hours the first of the wounded men was being carried into the schoolhouse. Mary talked to the medical orderly who brought them in, trying to store in her memory all his instructions for their care.

She maintained her calm demeanour as she helped Therese to make the wounded men as comfortable as they could, but her thoughts were a chaotic jumble of fear and anxiety, not for herself but for Randall. The lack of information was agony, not knowing where he might be, if he was wounded. If he was alive. She threw herself into looking after the soldiers. It was gruelling work. Every bed was occupied and when a man was deemed well enough to leave or, more usually, did not survive, his place was immediately filled by another badly injured soldier. By the time Mary lay down on her bed in the early hours of the morning she was so exhausted that even the ceaseless patter of rain on the windows could not keep her awake and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Her fears were waiting for her as soon as she awoke. She rose and dressed mechanically, steeling herself to face another day. However the workload was a little lighter, because the teachers she had been obliged to lay off returned to help with the nursing. Thus it was that when Bertrand arrived later in the morning he found Mary preparing to go out. He teased her when she had told him her destination.

‘You, go to church, Mary? I am aware you must take your pupils there, but I thought you did not believe in such things?’

‘Given our present situation I will take help wherever it comes from,’ she said frankly. And if he knew how hard she prayed for Randall’s safety he would be astonished. ‘The truth is, I thought I should go to the morning service, I might glean a little information.’

He stood aside. ‘Then I wish you good fortune, ma chère.’

* * *

The streets were teeming. Army wagons were moving and as Mary made her way to the more fashionable quarter she noted that many of the houses rented by the English were now empty and shuttered, or had carriages waiting at the door. She could find no news and in desperation she made her way to the Rue de Regence, only to find that Lady Sarah and her sister had already gone to Antwerp.

A growl of thunder made her glance up. The sky was clear blue and for a moment she was puzzled until a second rumble, then a third, made her blood run cold. It must be cannon fire. Quickly she turned and hurried back to the schoolhouse. The battle to save Brussels was underway.

* * *

Randall dragged a grimy sleeve across his eyes. This was how he imagined hell would be. The heat was stifling, shells screamed in around them, bodies covered the ground while the men still standing returned fire, grim determination in their blackened faces. Then, just as Randall was about to send a man to reconnoitre the situation, one of Wellington’s aides came galloping up. The duke’s orders were breathlessly relayed and instantly Randall was astride Pompey and roaring out commands.

‘Limber up, fast as you can!’ He rode up to Major Bartlett, almost unrecognisable in his muddied uniform, one sleeve torn from cuff to elbow and flapping wildly. ‘We are heading to the ridge yonder. You will recall we came in that way yesterday, past a place...what was it called?...Hougoumont. The French are massing their heavy cavalry between the château and the Charleroi road. Take up your position between the two infantry squares up there. And be quick about it!’