After the traumatic events of the past two weeks, Helena was actually glad of the enforced captivity as she watched the German countryside, alive with the vibrant greens of spring, roll by. The warm weather they had lately been enjoying in Vienna quickly vanished to be replaced by the endless rain that had plagued the rest of Europe while the Austrian capital had basked in a very local freak of meteorological good fortune. But the gloomy weather exactly suited Helena’s mood, which was reflective almost to the point of melancholy.
At last she had discovered love and passion, the zest and magic of life that had heretofore always seemed to elude her, only to lose it as soon as she had found it. For years she had thought that those delightful but unruly forces were a part of other people’s lives, not hers. And she had both envied those other people for the joys they experienced and pitied them for the frustration and disappointment they inevitably seemed to suffer. But now she, too, was subject to those same joys and the same sorrows, for the instant she had acknowledged her attraction to Brett, she had also resolved to conquer it both for her mother’s sake and for her own.
The princess, however, despite her daughter’s reservations, seemed hardly to think of her former admirer at all. Her talk was all of Talleyrand and Metternich and now, increasingly, her husband. “I wrote to Friedrich that we were departing for Brussels. I do hope that my letter reached him, before he went to join Blucher and his troops—if he has gone to join Blucher and if Blucher has indeed gone to Belgium.”
“Brett, er, the major, told me that once Blucher was given command of the Prussian forces, they would immediately march toward Belgium, so perhaps . . .”
“Brett?” The princess fixed her daughter with a quizzical look.
“Major Lord Brett Stanford. At any rate, he seems to think that Blucher will be coordinating with Wellington and that since Wellington’s headquarters is in Brussels, in all probability they will be facing the French together somewhere near there, which means that perhaps Papa must already be there or on his way.”
“Ah.” For the moment, the princess was far less interested in the possibility of her husband’s appearance in Brussels than she was intrigued by the self-conscious blush that stained her daughter’s cheeks. So, Helena truly was taken by the charming major. A tiny wrinkle furrowed the princess’ ordinarily smooth white brow, and she leaned over to cover her daughter’s hand with her one lemon kid gloved one.
“My dear, are you sure you know what you are about?” She looked at her daughter searchingly. “The major is a very charming man indeed and excessively handsome, but you are a rather serious creature.”
“I know. Mama.” Helena did not pretend not to understand what her mother meant.
“It is just that the major is the sort of man who, er, finds
all
women charming, and you . . . well, you have always been a loyal little soul, and I think you need someone who would devote himself solely to you.”
“I know. Mama.” Helena gazed miserably out the window at the rolling hills.
“He would not willingly hurt you, for he is by nature a kind person, but he is not the sort to have his interest, ah, remain fixed forever. Not that he would not care about you in his own way, but he is just the sort of man who has, shall we say,
broad interests,
which you do not. And that sort of thing can be very upsetting to a woman, no matter how worldly and sophisticated she is. We women are sensitive creatures whose entire world is centered around those we love, while men have many interests to distract and amuse them, so they are not so affected by such things.”
“Thank you for the warning. Mama.” Helena, warmed by the look in her eyes and the concern in her voice, squeezed her mother’s hand in return. The princess had always done her best to appear gay and carefree, for that was what drew people to her, her unadulterated pleasure in life, but Helena was only now beginning to understand what it might have cost her. True, she had vowed, after watching her mother’s lovers come and go, never to pin her hopes for happiness or support on any man, and she was still resolved to rely solely on herself as far as her own future was concerned, but even if one were totally self-reliant, it did not mean that one could not be hurt, or powerfully affected by one man in particular.
What a dreadful coil she had gotten herself into in spite of her clever mind and all her well-thought-out resolutions. Thank goodness Bonaparte had escaped when he had, for now, with entire armies converging on Brussels, it was highly unlikely that she would run into one particular major among all the officers swarming the Belgian capital—if he were even in Brussels, that was. It was far more likely that by now he would have returned to join his regiment, which, in all probability, would be deployed to defenses somewhere outside the city, and that would surely mean that the possibility of their paths crossing was extremely remote.
All her life, Helena had been proud of her own self-discipline, her ability to decide upon a course of action and then pursue it wholeheartedly. Where others had given in to momentary impulse or faintheartedness, she had not, and she had always been able to rely on herself to carry things through. Now she was not so sure. Her much prized self-control had vanished in a moment, it seemed—the moment Major Lord Brett Stanford had entered their lives.
She was not at all sure that she could count on herself to resist him in person, and was therefore forced to rely on his absence to give her the time to build up her resolve to remain indifferent to that crooked knowing smile, the twinkle in his eyes, and the understanding that ran so deep between them that she barely needed to voice her thoughts on a subject to know that he shared them. Yes, for all their sakes, she hoped he was stationed at the farthest reaches of the British defenses, far away from Brussels.
The increasing crowd of people choking the roads from Aachen to Liege and Liege to Brussels relieved Helena’s mind somewhat. Surely among the hordes of refugees, soldiers, and émigrés pouring into the capital, the chances of running into any one person were slim to none.
When they finally made their way through the crush of traffic in the Rue de la Madeleine to pull up at last in front of the Hotel D’Angleterre, Helena was convinced that she could spend months in the city without ever seeing the same person twice, crowded as it was by people of all nations.
True to his instructions, Potten was waiting for them in a suite of rooms he had managed to engage for them at the hotel until they had recovered enough from their journey to move into their more permanent quarters overlooking the park.
“Thank you, Potten. You have done excellently, as always.” The princess bestowed a tired smile on her butler as she allowed a subdued Marie to help her out of her pelisse, and sank gratefully into a chair. “I believe that we shall rest here for tonight and tomorrow, and then move into the apartments you have secured for us. The sooner we are settled at a permanent address where people can find us, the better.
Chapter Twenty-seven
They were quickly ensconced in their quarters in the Rue Montagne du Parc not far from Wellington’s headquarters, and the princess, who soon discovered that a good many acquaintances from England had also gravitated to the city that now commanded the attention of the world, lost no time in establishing contact with them.
Thirteen years’ absence and marriage to a German prince now leading troops along with Wellington’s trusted ally Blucher served to erase all memories of the former Lady Devereux’s questionable past and the profligate existence she had led as the wife and widow of that ne’er-do-well and embarrassment to his own family, Francis, Lord Devereux. All was forgotten. Even the starchiest matrons were delighted to welcome the Princess von Hohenbachern and her daughter to Brussels. In short order they were on easy terms with Lady Conyngham, Lady Charlotte Greville, and many others who were daily flocking to join husbands, brothers, and sons now attached to the regiments stationed in and around the city.
Indeed, their social life, which had seemed entirely filled with events in Vienna, was no less filled with them in Brussels, though now there was the constant undercurrent of tension caused by the certain knowledge that war was coming in the not too distant future, and that the soldiers now escorting wives, daughters and sweethearts to the cafes, museums, and churches of the city would soon be called to battle.
The visitors to the von Hohenbachem apartments in the Rue Montagne du Parc were not all female, however. Helena and the princess returned one morning, after making calls on Lady Conyngham and others, to the information that a male visitor awaited them.
“I have put him in the salon, madame, as I thought for certain you would wish to see him,” Potten reported, his blue eyes twinkling.
Helena’s heart began to pound rapidly. How had he known they were coming? He had left Vienna several weeks before they had. Had her mother written to him? Her mouth was dry, her palms clammy as they entered the salon to discover a tall distinguished gray-haired man in the dark green uniform of the Hohenbachem regiments seated on one of the delicate gilt and damask chairs.
“Friedrich!”
“Papa!”
Both women spoke at once as they hurried forward to greet the Prince von Hohenbacher.
“Meine Lieben.”
He rose to meet them, his face beaming. “Ah, my dear, you are lovelier than ever. Vienna offered you a setting worthy of your charms, I believe.” He lifted his wife’s hand to his lips and then turned to his stepdaughter. “But you, my girl, found all the gaiety to be rather tiring, I think?”
“A little, Papa.” Trying desperately to deny her disappointment in the identity of the visitor, Helena flushed under her stepfather’s fond scrutiny.
“Well, then, it is a good thing I have arrived in time to escort your mama to the ball the Duke of Wellington is giving to welcome Blucher so that you can rest at home with a clear conscience.”
“Thank you. Papa.” But oddly enough, Helena felt let down rather than grateful for the opportunity to remain at home. Surely someone who had worked so closely with the duke in Vienna would be present at such a ball, no matter how far outside the city he was stationed.
No, Helena,
she admonished herself firmly.
That is madness. For your own peace of mind, you cannot see
him again. For your own peace of mind, you
must
see him again,
another treacherous voice replied.
Sometime later, still wavering between the conflicting voices, Helena sought to clear her mind by taking a vigorous walk in the park. For an hour or more she and her mother had regaled the prince with the high points of their sojourn in Vienna and the tedium of their journey to Brussels until Helena, with a newly gained awareness to such things, could see that her mother would be just as happy to be left alone with her husband and, seizing upon her stepfather’s earlier remarks, she excused herself ostensibly to get some rest. But her mind was in too much turmoil to do anything of the kind. Hastening to her bedchamber, she snatched up her pelisse, gloves, and bonnet and, calling upon Hannechen to come with her, hurried out to the park.
The rain that had plagued them for days had finally stopped, and the park was thronged with people, young and old, enjoying the sun and the fresh air. But Helena was oblivious to them all as she strode along in a most unladylike manner, trying to resolve the confusion of her thoughts. The warmth in her mother’s smile as she welcomed her husband had told Helena all that she needed to know, which was that Major Lord Brett Stanford was quite forgotten as far as the Princess von Hohenbachern was concerned, and her relationship to him was no longer an issue. What was an issue, however, was that her daughter—still unwilling to place all her hopes for happiness on another person, especially a man with a reputation for enjoying beautiful women—fervently hoped that her own feelings for Major Lord Brett Stanford would simply disappear over time.
However, it was not a hope that was destined to be realized. The air had grown chilly as the sun sank lower in the sky, and the crowds in the park had thinned considerably by the time Helena slowed her vigorous pace and headed reluctantly back toward the Rue Montagne du Parc, when a voice behind her exclaimed, “Helena, I mean, Miss Devereux!”
Her face grew hot and then cold, and she was forced to clasp her hands in front of her to keep them from trembling as she turned around. “Major.”
It was all she could manage. The rest of the dignified greeting she had rehearsed again and again in preparation for such an occurrence died in her throat. He was more handsome than she had remembered. The face looked thinner, the lines of fatigue were more pronounced, but the eyes, as brilliantly blue as ever, looked down into hers with the same intensity, the same special smile she remembered.
“This is wonderful! I had no idea you were planning to leave Vienna, much less come here!”
And how did you happen to choose Brussels,
his eyes asked her.
“Mama,” she managed to gasp. And then, seeing the light slowly fade, his eyes darken, she hastened to add, “was worried about Papa. She knew that Blucher had been ordered to Brussels and surmised that Papa had been too. There was no time to write, so we just came. And Papa has arrived. In fact he is with Mama right now, and she appears most delighted to see him.”
“Is she now?” Some of the glow came back into his eyes, and the anxious frown disappeared. “And you. How are you? Are you well? You look sadly pulled. The trip was somewhat tiring, I gather.”
“The trip? I am not such a poor creature as to be worn down by a few days in a carriage.”
But missing you, thinking of you was exhausting,
her heart added. And now she knew for certain. The dullness, the ennui that had plagued her for the past month was not the result of frenzied packing or a grueling journey, but because she had missed him—missed his smile, his touch, the look in his eyes that told her she was special, that he cared.
Once he had left Vienna, she no longer awakened every morning looking forward to the day. Because he was no longer there, one day was just like another, empty and without particular interest, in spite of her best efforts to keep herself amused and her mind occupied. Life without him had been dull indeed. It had been dull before she met him, she now admitted to herself, and it was after he had left. Yes, it was safe, but it was also dull.