A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

‘It is very sad, but you can console yourself with the thought that his fate had nothing to do with the elopement.’ Lady Thetford was robust. ‘And he was doing his duty in a noble cause.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ And she had been some comfort to him all through that dreadful night, she thought now. But her motives had been selfish. What a mess. At least she could make amends for heaping the sins of those other men on Adam’s head. But they must still talk, she still wanted, needed, reassurance about how he looked at marriage. ‘I must write to Major Flint,’ she said. ‘Is there time before dinner?’

‘I think so.’ Her mother glanced at the mantel clock. ‘You will want to tell him about the invitations, I imagine.’

Those, of course, and to apologise for slamming the door in his face and denying him the house. She owed him that, at least. If she had not eloped in the first place, none of this would have happened; it was up to her to put things right. If she was not with child, then perhaps she could persuade him, and her parents, that he need not tie himself to her. She wished she knew what was the right thing to do.

When the note was written she handed it to Heale. ‘Please see this is delivered to Major Flint’s lodgings as soon as you can spare a footman from dinner service. And, Heale, I did not mean what I said about denying me to the major. He will be received whenever he calls.’

*

Flint flattened the single sheet of notepaper under his hand and read it yet again. It had arrived last night while he had been out at a meeting with the other officers and NCOs who had been left in c

harge in the city, and he had tossed it, unread, on to the litter of reports on his desk.

To the devil with all women, he had thought as he pulled off his clothes and fell into bed. He could do without pages of reproaches on top of a heap of medical reports, statistics, charge sheets and the court martial of a corporal accused of rape.

This morning, fortified by one of Maggie’s breakfasts, he had opened it and found, not a lecture on his sins, but one side of neatly written apology for Rose’s ‘overreaction’ and a list of social engagements. He had to confess himself surprised. Rose had been distressed and embarrassed and he could appreciate why. She had been in tears and that felt…uncomfortable.

In his experience distressed, embarrassed ladies expressed themselves with flying china and raised voices. Rose, it seemed, was out of the ordinary. Unless, of course, reflection had shown her that far from thinking herself in love with him, she really did not care enough to be angry.

Flint stared at the list of hospitals he was to visit that day until the words blurred out of focus. Which was better? A wife who loved him and who he was bound to hurt because he had no idea how to love a wife in return, or one who could barely tolerate him and who had been forced into the marriage to escape ruin? What did love even feel like, anyway? He certainly was not in the besotted state he had occasionally observed in his friends, although half the time he suspected they were being led by their wedding tackle and not their hearts.

That he could understand. Sex was straightforward. A memory of one lady and her tricks with a pair of silk stockings and a hairbrush gave him pause. Mostly straightforward. Making love with Rose was better than with anyone else in his experience. Perhaps that was because she was so fresh, so unjaded. He dipped his quill into the inkpot and then sat while it dripped on to the desk as he thought about pale, silky skin, the perfect weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her on his lips.

Yes, sex was straightforward. But the way he felt after he had made her so upset, no, that was not straightforward at all. ‘Damnation!’ He blotted at the ink with his pen wiper. Now he had to spend the next two evenings trussed up in his dress uniform doing the pretty. Just what did one do at a soirée anyway?

*

It appeared that at soirées one stood around and talked whilst being deafened by shrill female voices and at the same time tried not to spill one’s drink down the gown of the lady nearest you or be caught rolling your eyes at other male sufferers. It was also necessary to keep one’s temper with simpering chits who wanted to coo over him because he must be a hero, male civilians who thought they could have fought the battle better than Wellington and anguished ladies who wanted to talk about the poor dear young men who had been killed or wounded.

It was all made considerably worse by the need to drag Rose off to some secluded corner and kiss her until that cool, bleak look vanished from her eyes.

Finally, under the pretext of presenting her with a glass of lemonade, he managed to say, ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘We are talking.’ She was wearing a moss-coloured gown that made her eyes more green than hazel, striking amber jewellery and her hair was swept up into a complex of swirls and plaits that made him want to remove every single pin in it.

‘Alone. And not at the top of our voices.’

‘What do you want to talk about?’ She sipped her lemonade and smiled at a passing captain of dragoons in a way that had Flint’s hand tightening on the hilt of his dress sword.

‘Us. Yesterday.’

Her lips pursed in a little pout that did nothing for his internal turmoil. ‘It is rather warm and there is a terrace at the side, I think.’ Without waiting for his reply she turned and led the way through the crowd, nodding and smiling and exchanging the odd word here and there. Finally they arrived at a curtained alcove. ‘Through here.’

Flint followed her, across a lobby, through glazed doors and on to a deserted terrace. ‘Excellent. How did you know this was here? Is this where you would flirt with Haslam?’

Rose turned away abruptly. ‘Beast!’

‘I am sorry.’ He was, he discovered, jealous that she could be so touchy on behalf of the unfortunate lieutenant. ‘Look, Rose, about yesterday. If I could have kept you from meeting those two, I would have done, not because I am ashamed of my past but because it is the past.’

‘But you condone adultery. Obviously you do or you would not have slept with two married women. And those are just the ones I know about.’

‘I did not break those marriages, they were already broken. I cannot imagine being unfaithful to you.’

She turned a shoulder, almost as though she was shrugging him off.

Flint moved closer, lowered his voice. ‘If you are carrying my child, Rose, then you will marry me, trust me or not.’ She would wed him anyway, he had ruined her, but at least if she was not pregnant he had longer to make her happy about it first. ‘You said you thought you loved me.’