The Prodigal Daughter (14 page)

“Have you heard any details of how he died?  The letter was infuriatingly vague.”

She stared at him, but he appeared to have both feet firmly planted on the ground. Though younger than his brother, he seemed the elder, his lighthearted manner covering a core of seriousness. “I know exactly how he died. I found his body while I was searching for my husband.”

He paled, but refused to break the silence as she paused to push her own ghosts away.

“Do you really want the details, or is it enough to know that he died quickly, without suffering?”

“Tell me.”

She sighed. “He was in one of Picton’s squares. At some point he had been wounded in the leg, for it was bound, but the gash was not bad enough to warrant retiring from the field. He had also received several lesser cuts to his arms. The blow that killed him sliced deeply into his neck, nearly severing the head. It appeared to be a saber wound rather than from cannon fire and must have occurred late in the day, for the body had not been moved from the spot where he fell.”

“Oh, my God,” Oliver choked.

“War is hell,” she observed succinctly. “At least he felt nothing at the end. I could not begin to count the number of men who died days or weeks later after untold agony. And others die every day from starvation or disease, because their injuries left them unfit for labor.”

They played several desultory hands of piquet while Oliver quizzed her on battles and campaigns she had witnessed. In a way, talking with him helped her relax. She had not realized how weighed down she had felt from the waste of it all.

* * * *

Norwood and Wellington were also engaged in piquet, continuing a congenial discussion of politics that had begun over billiards that afternoon.

“I have trouble believing Mrs. Morrison’s exploits,” said Norwood out of the blue. “She does not seem real.”

“Oh, she’s real enough..” Wellington chuckled. “But she is as eccentric as they come, meaning no disrespect to the lady.”

“You were not exaggerating, then?”

“Never. I met her shortly after we landed in Portugal. Jack had distinguished himself at Vimeiro – as he did in every battle we fought. The first time I saw Amanda, she was binding up a gash on a Portuguese child who had been caught in the fight. I think we were in Paris after the abdication before she managed to pass an entire waking hour without helping someone. It was at a ball..” He shook his head. “I may be wrong about that. She was probably eliciting life stories and offering advice to half of her dance partners.”

Norwood sighed. “I first met her last summer when an inn burned down. She roused most of us, then set up a surgery outside.”

“Typical..” And he recounted some of Amanda’s Spanish exploits.

* * * *

Late in the evening Lady Thorne encountered her son alone in the hallway.

“Your behavior before dinner was ill-bred,” she chided him coldly.

“Are you standing up for her?”

“My personal feelings are irrelevant. Think well on your actions Thorne. You came close to making a complete cake of yourself. Too often have you jumped to hasty conclusions, acting without checking the facts. Neither Norwood nor Wellington was impressed. With two such formidable champions in her corner, you can hardly ignore her.”

“You did not seem surprised by the duke’s words,” he snapped in irritation. “I suppose she has already bragged of her feats.”

“Again you assume wrongly. Her only mention of the war was admitting that her husband died at Waterloo. If I appeared unsurprised, it is due to properly controlling my face, a lesson you should review. You might also consider your father’s dictums on duty. No matter what your feelings, you have a responsibility to your daughter. It is unseemly to continue this feud, as everyone in the area knows the connection and derides your intransigence.”

“Enough, Mother,” he growled. “I am head of this family and will choose my own course.”

“Think on it,” she suggested.

* * * *

Emily lay awake long into the night, reviewing Major Humphries’s dinner party. Despite everything that she had been taught, Oliver’s challenge had caught her attention. Was she really insufferably toplofty?  She knew that the lady of the manor had a duty to care for the tenants. Did using warmth and kindness detract from her position?  Perhaps the cold dislike she had always detected in Thorne’s dependants was in response to her own haughty condescension. The thought was not comfortable since she had always patterned her behavior on her mother’s teachings. But she had to admit that many well-born girls followed different precepts.

Then there was Amanda. She actually remembered very little of her sister. Amanda had avoided the schoolroom whenever possible, and who could blame her?  Both the governess and her brothers had tormented her unceasingly. She herself had followed suit, knowing that her parents would approve.

For years she had believed that Amanda had run off with a half-pay soldier, the implication being that no wedding had taken place and that the man was worthless. She now had to admit that her father had either fabricated the story or had deliberately embellished a tale of which he knew few facts. Wellington’s accolades had shaken her badly, as had Colonel Morrison’s aristocratic connections. Oliver had spent over an hour with Amanda. Lord and Lady Craven had been delighted to see her again. Everyone else had applauded her activities, despite their unconventional character. Only Thorne continued his icy disdain. Why?  Had he deliberately lied about Amanda’s departure, or had he not known the truth?  It made her wonder if his other pronouncements were half-truths. Was his judgment flawed?

Chapter Nine

The Duke of Norwood rode alone across the moor above Thornridge Court, pondering recent revelations. All his ideas of propriety were being challenged, and he was not sure why.

Mrs. Morrison was as odd a lady as he had ever met. How could the daughter of a marquess tolerate life as the wife of a soldier?  It did not matter that the soldier had risen to become one of Wellington’s aides. Society ladies were taught to avoid vulgar company, making such a life anathema.

He considered the young ladies he had met in town the previous Season. Lady Emily was the most proper – which was why he had chosen her – but she was not very different from the others. Few would lift a finger to do anything that could be done by a servant. If one of them had been trapped in that inn fire, she would have gone into strong hysterics. Faced with a crowd of wounded strangers, none would have rushed to help. While he was not proud of his own behavior, it was typical of his class.

How had Lady Amanda become so different? 

He should follow the lead of his host and deplore her. Thorne had been deeply embarrassed at being maneuvered into acknowledging the woman. Norwood’s own part in forcing the disclosure brought a blush to his cheeks. And Mrs. Morrison’s claim of lifelong antagonism was not exaggerated. His mother had not known of her existence, despite a long acquaintance with Thorne’s wife. She had strongly championed Lady Emily as a suitable spouse, frequently referring to her as Thorne’s oldest daughter. Would she have considered the family in such a positive light had she known that it contained a Lady Amanda? 

Yet something prevented him from condemning her. Granted, she was not typical of aristocratic ladies. But her efforts always seemed effective and appropriate to the situation. If she had not taken charge in the stable yard, the fire would have been even more destructive. More than once he had heard praise for the bucket brigade that had saved the stables. Mrs. Morrison had ordered that action. Her soothing presence kept panic from spreading. Her organization allowed medical care to reach everyone. She had probably learned much of her command in the army, but that did not detract from its effectiveness. And she had controlled his own tantrum by employing the very haughtiness she would have learned from Thorne.

Would Annabelle have shown to such an advantage?  She had never been prone to hysterics, but he doubted she would have been useful. His mother was something else again. He shuddered. Her outburst would have made his own seem paltry. It was not an image he could point to with pride. On the other hand, he suspected that Mrs. Morrison would have handled the duchess with ease. The picture raised a spurt of amusement. Despite her breeding, he still suspected she was a witch.

Wellington’s disclosures had shocked him deeply. From the tales the military leader had told and others extracted from the major, Norwood had pieced together a fairly clear picture of her career with the army. Captain Jack Morrison had first come to Wellesley’s attention in 1808. When Wellesley returned to the Peninsula the following year, he’d kept an eye on Morrison, promoting him regularly, as he did with several other protégés. Mrs. Morrison had rapidly gained renown as both a healer and a confidante. By the time Colonel Morrison transferred to Wellington’s staff after Vittoria, his wife had established herself as an assistant to the surgeons. When they reached Vienna, the duke had enlisted her to work as a spy.

Norwood shook his head. Every bit of gentleman’s training abhorred the very idea of spying, but he had to admit that in wartime – and the Congress was simply an extension of the war – information was vital to the national interests. But spying was a dirty, dangerous business. How could anyone assign a lady to the task?  Yet Wellington had praised her more than once for her successes and for the importance of the information she acquired.

It all seemed so alien to his world. So why was he thinking about it?  Thorne had made it clear that Lady Amanda was no longer part of his family, by mutual agreement. She had said the same. But Norwood was not so sure. Even though she had voluntarily cut the connection, it would be impossible to sweep the whole business under the carpet. Now that Wellington was aware of her origins, he would push even harder to see that her deeds were recognized. Whatever the family thought of the situation, people were going to learn the truth. And so he must determine his own position.

He sighed. The last thing he needed was scandal. Yet if he could not condemn her, he must support her.

The idea was not as repugnant as it should have been. She had disputed the need for recognition, so there might not be any official accolades. In that case, perhaps he could minimize her activities by explaining that she had stumbled across some information that Wellington would be interested in and, as a good citizen, reported it. Her medical work could be likened to a lady’s duty to see after the tenants. There was a considerable gulf between the two, but he already knew that Lady Amanda would never aggrandize her own achievements.

His wanderings had brought him back to cultivated areas. The sun was unusually warm for September, burning uncomfortably into his back. It was more than time that he returned to the Court for breakfast.

He was rounding a blind corner when a branch snapped just ahead. His horse shied. Something yelped, landing squarely in front of him in a shower of leaves. Swearing, he jerked his frightened mount aside. Not until he had pulled to a stop did he identify the miscreant as a boy of about four.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, kneeling beside the lad. Bright blue eyes set in a grubby face held surprise, but there was no sign of pain.

“Ben!”  A second lad of about seven pushed through a hedge, fear evident in his voice.

“He seems to be fine,” reported Norwood. Ben was already struggling to his feet.

“You should know better than to bother a Swell,” hissed the newcomer, grabbing his brother by the sleeve. “And stay away from horses.”

“I fell,” Ben stated without contrition.

“Forgive him, sir,” begged the older boy.

“Of course. Are you sure you were not hurt?” Norwood asked Ben.

He nodded, even as his brother murmured into his ear. “I’m sorry,” he added, blue eyes staring guilelessly into Norwood’s dark ones.

The duke watched as Ben was unceremoniously led away to the accompaniment of a furious scolding. A tenant farm was visible in the distance. Shaking his head, he patted his horse.

* * * *

Amanda turned her gig into a new lane and gasped. Norwood was standing in the center of the road, his buff breeches and shining topboots liberally streaked with dust, a broken branch lying at his feet. Two of the Wilson boys were trudging away, Tom reading Ben a scathing lecture. A restive horse rolled its eyes in nervous fear.

“Are you all right, your grace?” she asked, jerking her own horse to a stop.

“Of course..” He seemed to read her mind, for he hastened to reassure her. “There was no accident, just a minor mishap. Ben tumbled in front of my horse, but seems unharmed.”

She grinned. “That boy is a sad trial – too adventurous by half. You would not believe some of his escapades. I suppose he slipped out during the confusion.”

Norwood remounted. “Confusion?”

“His mother just delivered another son.”

“That explains your presence.”

“The midwife was engaged elsewhere, arriving only near the end. I could hardly leave Mrs. Wilson to suffer alone.”

“Of course not,” he murmured, then shook his head. “I am not used to taking action myself. All my training was in giving orders, though you are making me wonder if self-reliance might have some advantages..” He described his mother’s reaction to the carriage accident near the Castle.

“She is hardly unique,” pointed out Amanda. “Such arrogance is typical amongst the nobility. Thorne would do the same and my stepmother would not even have ordered the gatekeeper to help.”

He rode beside her in silence for several minutes. “The day you found me in the field, did you challenge me to read the parable of the Good Samaritan, or was that part of some delirious vision?”

“You were not delirious.”

“Are you sure?  Sometimes I think I still am. You are turning out my head as determinedly as my housekeeper turns out my study each spring.”

“Perhaps it was a trifle dusty.”

“How did you become so different from ordinary ladies?”

“Rebellion..” She shrugged and her horse twitched his ears. “Thorne had only to forbid something to make me do it. I was a despicably undutiful child, deserving a reputation as the family black sheep.”