A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

Randall glanced up at the blue sky. Would she see him? Would she forgive him? He closed his eyes. If he was in her place he would not do so. Dear heaven, how could he have been so mistaken? He should have known he could trust her. He had always considered himself a good judge of men, but this woman had wrong-footed him from the start. If she’d listen, give him another chance...

He was preparing to rise when movement caught his eye. There was someone near the barn. Cautiously he raised his head. It was a child, a French drummer boy. How he had come there was a mystery, but he was heading for the barn doors. Randall could imagine the gory scene inside. No child should see that.

He jumped up and ran forward, shouting to the boy to stop. He did so, but only for a moment. When he saw an English officer running towards him he took to his heels and dashed away. Randall wanted to give chase, but exhaustion had caught up with him. His legs buckled and he stumbled and collapsed on to the ground just in front of the barn. When he looked up again the boy had disappeared. He gave an inward shrug. The lad should be all right. The Allied army was victorious and therefore in good spirits, which made them magnanimous, most of them. He could only hope someone would look after the boy.

He stood up. His legs were still unsteady and he put his hand on one of the doors. As he did so something glinted in the reeds, very close to where his horse was grazing peacefully. Randall swung round. His hand went to his sword as a loud retort echoed and he felt a sudden hammer blow to his ribs.

‘What the—?’

A French tirailleur rose up from the reeds. So not all the sharpshooters were dead. Randall saw the fellow grab the horse and swing himself into the saddle. Damned impudence! He became aware of a pain in his chest and slid a hand inside his open jacket. There was no mistaking the warm stickiness on his fingers. He glanced down to see the stain blooming on his white shirt.

Wine red. The colour of the sash on Mary’s dress.

‘Mary.’ He swayed, uttering her name as the blackness closed around him.

Chapter Twelve

Looking after the wounded left Mary little time for her own troubles, but throughout the day Jacques came in with conflicting reports of how the battle was going. Thankfully those soldiers who were able to speak were confident that Wellington would win the day and their optimism more than countered her manservant’s gloomy predictions. Bertrand stayed until late in the afternoon, doing what he could for the injured men and when he left he promised to send word if he heard anything of the battle. Mary settled down to a lonely dinner. She forbade Jacques to go out again, saying that whether the news was good or bad they would hear it soon enough and besides there was nothing they could do about it.

* * *

Dawn was breaking when she was roused by the sound of someone banging on the front door. Dressing quickly she found Bertrand in the hall. He came across and briefly touched her hand.

‘The French are beaten, Mary. Brussels is safe.’

She closed her eyes for a moment, uttering up a thankful prayer.

‘But we need to use your classrooms now,’ he continued urgently. ‘I have a wagon outside, full of men with injuries the most serious.’

‘Of course.’ She hurried across to the door and threw it open. ‘I had Jacques clear the schoolrooms yesterday, just in case.’ She stood beside him as dishevelled soldiers in filthy uniforms carried in the wounded. She smiled down at each man and uttered a few soft words of greeting.

Not by the flicker of an eye would she betray her dismay at their battered and bloodied appearance.

‘Are there many more?’ she asked quietly, when the last man had been taken in.

‘Too many. They fill the streets, but they are the lucky ones. Hundreds, non, thousands are still on the battlefield. Every hour they remain untended lessens their chances of survival.’

‘Have—have you heard how the artillery fared?’

Bertrand would know that she was really asking about Lord Randall, but she could not help herself.

‘Alas, non. I have no news for you.’

She nodded, pressing her lips together. There was nothing she could do. If they had not quarrelled Randall might have sent her a note, telling her he was safe. Or asked one of his officers to inform her, if it was bad news. Now she could expect nothing from him.

‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Let us get to work and make these poor men comfortable.’

* * *

‘Mademoiselle, there are soldiers at the door, asking for you.’

‘Thank you, Jacques. Tell them I shall be with them in a moment.’ Mary finished tying the bandage around what was left of one man’s arm and hurried to the hall.

She expected to find more orderlies there with another wagon full of hideously wounded men. Instead she saw five soldiers gathered outside the door. Their blue uniforms were torn and muddy, but she recognised them as artillerymen. Her heart racing, Mary hurried forward, but before she could utter any of the questions bubbling to her lips, one of the men spoke.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Endacott, but we was wondering, if, well, if Lord Randall was here?’

She stopped. ‘Lord Randall? Why should he be here?’