A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

‘No. Not until after dinner.’ He opened both eyes. Rose was blushing adorably. She also, strangely, had her hands full of paper.

‘What on earth?’ He hauled himself up against the bedhead and began to pull scattered pillows together.

‘It is my plan for what I was going to do when I thought I would never marry. I want to do something for soldiers coming back from the war who are disturbed in their mind. You saved me—my mind as well as my body. I cannot bear to think of those men condemned to wander, bemused figures of fun, or locked up in Bedlam with no one to fight for them. See what I have written already.’ She thrust the papers at him. ‘It is more questions than answers, but you will know what to do. We can do this together, can’t we?’ She frowned. ‘I suspect we may be told we are mad ourselves to attempt it.’

Flint glanced at the papers. It was brilliant. And difficult, complex and, probably for some people, controversial. It would be a battle. ‘I love it,’ he said and pulled the woman who would be his wife into his arms. ‘And I love you, Rose Catherine Tatton. I’m done with Randall’s Rogues, let us plan for Flint’s Folly.’

Epilogue

31st August 1815—Knap Hill House, Kent

Rose had told Adam that a wedding here, at the house that was now their home, would be perfect, and it was. The sun shone, the sweep of lawn down to the river was dotted with guests, with little pavilions and scatters of rugs and chairs. When it became obvious the good weather would hold they had simply moved the wedding breakfast outside and made a glorified picnic of it.

She stood for a moment, looking down from the terrace, searched for Adam and found him easily, standing beside Lord Randall. The two of them in civilian dress were surrounded by men in uniform, but it was obvious from their bearing that they were soldiers. And brothers. They looked right together and easy with each other at last. As she watched she saw Justin slap Adam on the back and the group’s laughter drifted up to her.

Justin had been his best man in church that morning, finally bridging the divide between their father’s sons.

She turned to take the sweeping steps down to the lawn and came face-to-face with two ladies, arm in arm. Mary, Justin’s new countess, and Lady Sarah, Major—no, Colonel now—Bartlett’s bride. My sisters-in-law, she thought, finding a smile. She knew neither of them, really, and now she felt wary. She’d had a fleeting encounter with Mary only as a desperate, brave woman fearing for her lover’s life and Adam had described a tiny martinet, ordering him from Justin’s sickroom. Sarah had been a furious, then penitent, avenging angel, a woman Tom Bartlett had described as full of courage and Adam as a foolish chit.

The polite words were forming in her mind, but she was enveloped in a double hug before she could say any of them.

‘Our third sister,’ Sarah said with satisfaction, stepping back to look at Rose while keeping a firm hold of her right hand.

She’s grown up, Rose realised. There was a gloss of calm and style, an air of confidence that had replaced Sarah’s wilful arrogance. And she looks well loved, Rose thought wickedly. She recognised that little smile of smug feminine satisfaction from her own mirror. Tom Cat Bartlett was obviously employing his famed amatory skills to good effect at home these days.

‘I suppose we are sisters,’ she agreed, returning the pressure of the

two warm hands clasped around hers. ‘I’ve never had sisters before.’ The feeling was surprisingly good.

‘Neither have I,’ Mary said. ‘It will be wonderful to have you both to confide in.’ She looked softer, somehow. No less intelligent and alert, yet…

Rose let her gaze drop to the other woman’s slender midriff and was answered by a blush and a laugh. ‘Yes, but we aren’t telling anyone yet,’ Mary whispered. ‘And Justin is driving me insane! You would think no woman has ever carried a child before.’

‘He’s a fusspot,’ Sarah declared. ‘And it is rather amusing to see my brother Lord Iceberg in a tizzy, you must admit. Tom will be perfectly calm when I am expecting.’ She cast a glance over the balustrade to where her husband was bowing over the hand of a particularly pretty young matron. ‘At least, I hope so. I refuse to be left at home, regardless.’

‘Tom is a terrible flirt,’ Mary observed. ‘I would kill Justin if he carried on like that.’

‘Tom will flirt until he’s a hundred and ten and make every woman from sixteen to ninety feel wonderful. But he’ll never stray,’ Sarah said complacently. At that moment Bartlett looked up and the charming smile on his face changed to something so intense, so loving, that Mary and Rose caught their breath. Sarah kissed her hand to him and he grinned and strolled back into the crowd.

‘Now we are sisters I want to know all about this hospital.’ Sarah turned so they faced the scaffolding-clad wing of the house. ‘If I wasn’t going to follow the drum with Tom I would come and be a nurse for you. I was when Mary had the wounded men at her school in Brussels.’

‘We can both be patrons,’ Mary said. ‘You need money, advice from the military and lots of support in society. Between the three of us, and our husbands, you’ll have all that. And employment for the men who are able to work when they recover.’

‘Thank you. It is such a relief to have female friends who understand,’ Rose said, realising a lack she had never felt before. ‘Adam is wonderful, but he looks at it from a male, army point of view, and I try not to worry him with the details while he’s setting up the stud.’

‘Oh, yes, that wonderful stallion of his. I’ve heard such stories about it from Justin,’ Mary said as they linked arms and began to descend the steps. ‘Has Adam bought any mares yet?’

‘Just one. See, over there.’ Rose pointed to a paddock where a black horse with a long, waving mane and tail was watching the activity in the gardens with interest. ‘Her name is Belladonna and she’s my wedding gift from Adam. And she’s as sweet-tempered as Old Nick is evil, so we’re hoping for a nicely balanced set of offspring.’

‘Mrs Flint.’ Tom Bartlett stepped out from behind one of the little marquees. ‘My felicitations.’

‘Colonel.’ Rose found she was still a trifle annoyed with him.

‘Am I forgiven?’

‘What have you done, you wretch?’ Sarah demanded, jabbing at her new husband with her parasol. ‘I won’t have you upsetting my new sisters, either of them.’

‘I accused Miss Tatton of emasculating Flint and turning him into a lapdog.’