Major Lord David (21 page)

David smiled at him. “‘Twill all come right, Barton” And he
watched his faithful servant gulp hard before hoisting Athington upon his broad and capable shoulders.

David remounted Incendio and rode westward along the
bank. He was not meant to be up here; he prepared to move
back down the slope to Hougoumont. But as he again crossed
the road and essayed to climb over the forward-facing bank,
his gaze caught a flailing red-sleeved arm thirty paces downslope, amid the disheartening debris and growing dimness. A
dozen French cavalry incursions had clearly taken a severe toll upon the line, though no squares had been broken. The
British continued to fire artillery at the approaching French
guard, but David knew that the firing would have to cease as
the French came closer. Remembering Athington, convinced
that the waving arm was in some way a signal, a supplication,
he spurred Incendio down the slope.

He was made to act; he had always acted. Invariably, when
he had failed to do so, he had found himself regretting.

British shells and grape struck just beyond him. As he slid
from the saddle, he found Kit Caswell, apparently intact but
wedged between a dead horse and an equally dead French cavalry cuirassier in all his heavy armor. Kit’s eyes were closed.
His flailing arm must have moved merely in spasm, because
the boy now looked still. He certainly felt cold enough. But
that face! David could not have left that familiar face out
there. And for a wounded man to be left amid this multitude
was akin to a sentence of death.

With a disheartened sense that Kit Caswell was doomed if
not yet dead, David summoned a strength he had not believed
he retained, rolling the French cuirassier off Kit’s side and
pulling him from beneath the horse. The rum-a-dum of the
French drums burned his ears. But he blessed the fading light
and the confused detritus of battle about him, which hid his
actions. The French columns were not yet close enough to
fire-and, at that, they were unlikely to waste their shot upon
just one horse and rider. Nothing else was visible to them. The
cries of “Vive l’Empereur!” echoed loudly.

Kit was lighter than Athington. Incendio stood still as David
tossed the boy upon the horse and hauled him toward the
ridge, the mud sucking greedily at his boots. At the first bank,
in the growing dusk, he pulled Incendio farther along the rise
before dropping behind it, lest he reveal the fortified dip to the
French guards in the lead.

Swiftly David tore off his coat and forced Kit’s arms into it,
leaving it loose and unbuttoned about him. The boy was so cold he had to be in shock, but he had a pulse. The coat might
help-Kit’s own was in tatters-and David knew that high officers received closer attention than the rank and file. He
ripped a blanket from a fallen pack and wrapped that around
Kit as well, then propped him upright in the saddle. Hastily he
tied Kit’s boots to the stirrups with his own belt, and, flattening Kit against Incendio’s mane, loosely tethered his hands
about the horse’s neck.

“Well, you won’t fall off,” David said grimly. Kit mumbled
indistinctly. David had seen no blood on the boy, but he had to
have broken bones or internal damage of an extensive nature
to be so limp and cold.

Behind them and to the left, David saw the French formation march right up to the crest of the ridge, right to a wall of
corpses. At some word down the line-some order that David
could not hear-the Guards hiding there behind the far bank
leapt to their feet and unleashed a barrage of fire into the column of French. David saw the French surprise and dismay,
not in their faces but in their actions. Some still attempted to
move forward, some halted to return fire, and some were so
startled and staggered they were attempting to turn, even in the
close formation.

“La Garde recule!” David yelled, thinking to add to their
confusion. “La Garde recule!” The Guard retreats! As the cry
was picked up and repeated in panic, David slapped Incendio’s flank hard, sending the horse and Kit galloping toward
the rear of the line. I hope, Kit Caswell, he thought, you might
make her some amends.

As well as he could then, David ran, down into the road and
across it. Sir John Colborne’s 52nd regiment stood there in column, firing upon the French. As David moved behind them, he
saw Wellington approach on horseback along the ridge, once
again foolishly-but magnificently, inspiringly-exposing
himself to enemy fire.

“Go on!” Wellington urged Colborne. “Go on! They won’t stand!” And the 52nd advanced downhill, astonishingly swinging into a parade-ground-perfect line formation, to close like a
hinge upon the French west flank. David had never seen a maneuver of its like. Though devastating to the inflexibly tight
French column, the movement also exposed the 52”d in an uncommon way. They would take high casualties. In the muck
and growing darkness, David hurried to alert the German
companies behind Hougoumont not to fire mistakenly into the
backs of the 52nd.

His legs felt heavy; they did not wish to advance him. He
was exhausted, wearied to numbness. Without Incendio, it
was difficult to get about. And in outfitting Kit Caswell, he
had abandoned his sword. He had not used it all day-he suspected he would scarcely have had strength to raise it-but it
might have served as support in the mud. Now, reduced to his
shirtsleeves, he was chilled, though the battleground had earlier felt like an oven. He found a sodden blanket, more mud
than wool, and slung it about his shoulders. When he reached
an officer of Halkett’s Hanoverian brigade, the man looked
upon him in astonishment but recognized his face. By a combination of hand gestures and the simplest of vocabulary,
David tried to convey that a line of British infantry now stood
between their brigade and the French guard. The lieutenant
seemed to understand, and indicated that in any advance his
forces would be moving south to retake the woods beyond
Hougoumont.

David strode on, down to the KGL brigade, to quickly
communicate the same. But as he left them, heading for the
sunken lane behind Hougoumont, something exploded, seemingly straight up from the ground. David felt a glance, as
though of an impact, yet his arms and legs were still intact. As
he looked down he could see them, and his mud-spattered
shirt, still white in the dusk. A Hanoverian trooper had trailed
him for some reason and now came to his side, grasping his arm
and gesticulating earnestly. The man was saying something to him, something in incomprehensibly mangled German and
English. David thought bemusedly that theirs was certainly a
mad and motley army-expected to move in concert, when they
could not even understand one another! His mind seemed unusually slow. He recognized the word granate, repeated several
times. But no one used grenades anymore. A shell, perhaps. Or
did the fool mistake him for a French Grenadier? Then,
schlecht. Bad. Yes, this was all very bad. But why the devil had
he been stopped?

Impatiently he shook off the German’s hand and started to
walk. There was something dreamlike about the smoldering
ruins of Hougoumont before him, the thick dark smoke, the
looming hedge, the last few rays of light from the fading sun
reflecting eerily in the broken clouds. When he reached the
sunken road, he abruptly, unexpectedly, fell to his knees, and
looked down at the soft mud with an astonished laugh. What a
fine commander he was-to be incapable of standing upright
at the end of the day!

The French boy, “Billie,” his little blue coat still too clearly
distinguishable in the dusk, was creeping toward him along
the sunken path.

“You were to wait for me!” David shouted in French. His
voice cracked, from hours of yelling, and despite his alarm
the thought struck him as hilarious. For some inexplicable
reason he was laughing. “This way is dangerous! Go back!”
The boy came on, though David was certain he had shouted.
He believed he had heard himself shout. But something-a
musket ball-struck his left shoulder. The wrong direction … from the King’s own German legion, begad! These
many nervous recruits … But with the sharp sting, all else
blanked.

Number 16, St. James’s Square, the elegant residence of Mr.
and Mrs. Boehm, was brightly lit and beautifully decorated
for the night’s assembly. The evening had been anticipated as the most brilliant of the waning season. Yet the glittering company outshone the surroundings. Many distinguished personages, including the Prince Regent and his brother, the Duke of
York, were to attend.

Since the Richmond picnic, Billie and Hayden had ventured
out together only infrequently-to a few dinner parties, two
dances, another musicale-but gossip had been rife nonetheless. Hayden was always a much sought after, most elusive
guest. That he should now trouble to attend events, and with a
fiancee, was something to be noted with excitement.

Billie entered the Boehms’ on Hayden’s arm. This dance
was by far the largest event they had attended together. She
felt the weight of attention, the many gazes curious and assessing. She knew that Hayden was much studied and emulated and that he was invariably discussed, whereas she had
no wish to be the same.

“You tire of this, my dear,” he observed softly. He was looking to the crowd as he spoke.

“‘Tis all most … invigorating, I know, my lord. And I am
truly grateful….” As his steady gaze turned to hers, she
stopped and said frankly, “I find this trickery wearing. The deception.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “You would.”

She thought she heard the slightest emphasis on the you.
Billie looked at him sharply. “It does not trouble you?”

“Not unduly, Miss Caswell. Deception is the oil of society,
after all. Without it, we should all sink.” And as though to illustrate the truth of the remark, he turned to compliment a
lady who had approached him, a lady who seemed overly
willing to believe Hayden’s flattery.

But Billie knew that in one way, perhaps the most important
way, Hayden did not deceive. For everyone knew what he was.
However aloof and enigmatic he might seem at times, he was
always himself, whereas she-she had not even been honest
with the man she loved.

The June evening was hot and still. In an effort to catch
the faintest of breezes, the Boehms had opened the windows
throughout their house. Billie feared that once the company
began to dance she might well expire, though she wore the
thinnest of cool lawn gowns. Her sense of oppression had little
to do with the heat. She had not been truthful with Hayden.
She desperately wished to be free again. To be home and at liberty, to walk and ride for miles, or to sneak off to Braughton, to
dream of David …

Attempting to school her features, she turned to the couple
behind them. Her aunt Ephie had enjoyed the past two weeks.
Hayden’s access to the cream of the ton was unsurpassed, and
Ephie had taken delighted advantage of the opportunity to
visit the most exclusive of salons and parties. Hayden’s friend
Lord Knowles, at present escorting Ephie, often accompanied
them as well, to ensure that neither lady should ever lack a
turn on the dance floor, as Hayden’s aversion to the pastime
was quite renowned. Though Lord Knowles tended to talk a
great deal, Billie found him a good-natured and attentive
partner.

She spotted simpering May Sanders with Lord Grenby
ahead on the stairs. The two had announced their engagement
on the very day the Times had carried Hayden’s spurious notice. As Billie caught Grenby’s eye, she decided that he no
longer looked sheepish. Grenby must think her as inconstant
as he was. But he needn’t look so very superior.

She hoped that she and Hayden would soon drop their sham
betrothal, as it had served its purpose. Ronald Dumont had
ceased to make a nuisance of himself. Indeed, she had heard
he was off visiting his properties in Ireland. And as for Kit’s
debts-upon his return, Kit would certainly still owe. But
word had come to Billie’s ears that Hayden had won many of
Kit’s IOUs from Dumont, before that gentleman’s departure.
Billie supposed it marginally more comfortable to be outrageously in debt to one’s neighbor than to a blackguard like Dumont. Still, gentlemen were expected to honor their debts,
lest they fail to be considered gentlemen.

Kit had written once from Brussels, a letter so entirely full
of his own excitement and concerns that Billie wondered at
herself for having wished to hear from him at all. Still, she
had sent him a reply. By contrast, she had let ten days lapse
before settling upon a suitable response to Lord David-a
rudely unacceptable delay with any correspondent, but most
particularly with the man one loved.

“A bit close, is it not?” Hayden asked her, perhaps noticing
her frown.

Billie nodded. Hayden’s friend, Lord Demarest, and Demarest’s fiancee, Lady Constance, had joined their party and
were eagerly exchanging news with Knowles. There had been
word yesterday of battles south of Brussels. Bonaparte had
bested the Prussians, and British residents in the city prepared
to remove to Antwerp-to face a possible siege.

“This cannot all be happening again,” Billie said, nervously
working her fingers together in their soft kid gloves.

“Oh, it will all come right,” Hayden told her.

“Why should you believe that?”

“Because David said so,” he replied easily. Again Billie felt
that sharp loss; she looked down to examine her gloves. “Time
and numbers are against Bonaparte,” Hayden continued. “He
cannot fight us all. Eventually he must sue for peace”

“Only after many more have died.”

Hayden did not respond. They were moving on past the
stairs and into the spacious ballroom with the others. Billie
could hear Mrs. Boehm, in her thickly Russian accent, addressing the Prince Regent, who had attended an earlier dinner. Ahead of them and to the side, everyone was bowing low
or sweeping to the floor in a curtsy. Without even seeing the
Regent, Billie followed suit. As the orchestra struck up the
opening bars for a quadrille, Hayden tilted his head to her.