The eyelids opened and the lips formed themselves into a tired smile. “Helena.” It was more a statement than a question.
Slowly through the fog of pain and exhaustion, he had heard someone speaking his name. At first he had thought it was his own disordered mind telling him what he wanted to hear, but the voice grew more insistent. He forced himself to focus on the direction it was coming from and, with his last ounce of energy, opened his eyes to find, against all odds, Helena looking up at him.
He had survived the hell of smoke and heat, the thunder of massive charges, the thud of cannon balls raining down from overhead, the whistle of shots around him, but only barely. And toward the end, when he had been almost too tired to hold the reins, faint with exhaustion and light-headed from thirst, the only thing that had kept him going had been the thought of her. It was the hope of living out the rest of his days with the woman be loved that had kept him alive, kept him focused enough to duck his head as stray shots whizzed over it, gave him the strength to carry his messages back and forth as one after another of Wellington’s other aides were killed or carried off the field. It was only at the very end, when he had allowed himself to be distracted for a moment that he had felt the dull thud in his shoulder which slowly blossomed into a pain that threatened to overwhelm his entire body.
“Go on, man, you have been hit,” one of Maitland’s aides had exclaimed. “The battle is almost won; get off the field before you get yourself killed.”
Brett had been about to protest when the troops had suddenly massed and charged, leaving him far behind as blackness overtook him.
When he had come to, the battle had moved far beyond him. The light was fading and he knew his usefulness had ended. And, not wishing to trouble the overworked surgeons in the field hospitals, he had turned Rex toward Brussels and headed back to quarters in the hopes of at least finding a bed to collapse in.
But as he rode, the loss of blood made him grow more and more faint, and the reality of the battlefield had faded into dreams of her—her smile, her laugh, her touch—until suddenly, there she was smiling and kissing him, and telling him she loved him.
It was the shock of pain that woke him fully to reality. “Damn and blast.” Brett at last shook his head, grabbed Rex’s reins, and struggled upright. If he did not fight off the unconsciousness that kept threatening to overwhelm him, he would never make it to Brussels, malingerer that he was.
“You must dismount so that I can look at it.”
Brett looked down in astonishment. “Helena! It really is you.”
“Yes, it is. I thought you knew it was. Now, Brett, you must let me bind your wound before you lose any more blood. Hans will help you down.”
“Damn Hans.” He slid off Rex’s back and, wincing fiercely, put his arms around her. “It
is
you. I love you so.”
“And I love you.” She was smiling through the tears that were pouring down her cheeks. “But I will love you more if you allow me to tie this up, take you home, and see that you are properly taken care of.”
“Take me home—a dream come true.” He leaned his head on Rex’s shoulder and gratefully took a swig of brandy from the flask she handed him while she bound his shoulder as best she could and wrapped a bandage around his head.
Mounting again, however, was an altogether different story, and as Hans shoved him back up into the saddle, he fainted from the pain and exertion of it all. But revived somewhat by the brandy, he soon made it back to a semiconscious state, in which he was just enough awake to cling to Rex as they made their way slowly back to the city.
Chapter Thirty
The faintest shade of gray was softening the eastern sky as they finally made their weary way down the Rue Montagne du Parc to the von Hohenbachern apartments, where the candlelight could still be seen through the windows and the princess was eagerly awaiting them in the salon.
“You found him!” She exclaimed hugging her daughter to her. “I knew you would. Potten has seen to it that all is in readiness. The spare bedchamber has been prepared and Cook awaits instructions.”
Helena’s eyes filled with tears for the hundredth time that evening. In the end, her mother had had more faith than she had. The princess had given orders for preparations to welcome the major home when her daughter would not even trust herself to hope that she would find him alive.
The wounded man, worn out by the effort of clinging to his horse, had collapsed completely, and he did not even stir as Hans and the coachman carried him to bed.
The princess gave her daughter’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “He is worn out from the exhaustion more than anything. Trust me, I was married to a man who sat at the gaming tables for days on end before coming home to collapse, I know the signs. His color is good, his breathing is steady. Give him a full day of sleep and mark my words, in spite of his wound, he will be wanting to be back on duty. You, my dear, should do the same and get some rest. It would never do to have him wake at last only to find you looking so hagged.” She read the stubbornness in her daughter’s face. “Very well. But at least allow Hannechen to help you on with a fresh gown. Take it from me, no matter how much a man loves a woman, he is always put in a more cheerful frame of mind when she is pleasant to look upon, and he will not wake up anytime soon, I assure you.” She shook her head at the unyielding set of her daughter’s jaw. “I promise you, I shall watch over him until you return. And mind you, wash your face,” she added in afterthought, but Helena had already left the room.
The princess was correct; Brett did sleep all the next day and the following night, oblivious to the sound of visitors who called in the Rue Montague du Parc full of news of the battle or to the pounding on the door by the courier who came with a message for the princess that her husband was safe. Having fought with Blücher, he had been present when the general met up with Wellington at La Belle Alliance, and then he had joined the Prussians in their pursuit of Bonaparte, but he had first taken time out to scribble a note to his wife and stepdaughter, assuring them of his safety.
During all this, Helena was content simply to sit at the major’s bedside and watch him sleep. The Marquis of Juarenais had managed to convince the surgeon who had been at the Juarenais’ apartments examining General Sir Charles Alien to take a look at Brett. The surgeon quickly seconded the princess’ opinion that what the major needed most was sleep.
“You have cleaned the wound thoroughly, and he is a fine healthy man who did not suffer from the exposure to the elements or the fetid air of the field hospitals as so many have,” the surgeon reassured them. “He should heal nicely if he is kept warm and allowed to get the rest he needs and”—his fierce dark eyes twinkled at Helena from under craggy brows—”when he awakes to see you at his side, he will recover even faster.”
Brett woke at last on the evening of the second day after she had brought him home. Hearing the rustle of the sheet, Helena bent over him as he turned his head toward her. Opening his eyes, he smiled. “Not a dream,” he whispered, reached for her hand, and fell promptly asleep again.
She sat for hours holding his hand in her lap, not daring to move a muscle for fear of waking him. Who would have thought that holding a man’s hand would be the sum of all her hopes and dreams? But she thanked Providence for having seen him safely through it all so that she could.
In her darkest hour, Helena had admitted to herself that life without him was no life at all, and now, just knowing that he was alive and safe brought her more happiness than she had ever thought possible. And she too fell asleep at last holding his hand.
When next she woke, daylight was streaming into the room and he lay there, propped up on his pillows, watching her, a curiously reverent expression lighting up the deep blue eyes. “I suppose it is never too late to believe in angels.” He smiled at her. “Only an angel would have risked her life to find me.”
“The battle was over. There was little danger.” Helena found it oddly difficult to accept his gratitude.
“There was danger all around, and you know it. How can a woman risk her life to come find me, yet not have the courage to risk becoming my wife?”
Helena flushed uncomfortably. “It is not a matter of courage. It is just that. . .”
“Just that what?”
“I, I have always had other plans, plans that did not require a man to bring them about.”
“I know. The school where you will teach young women to take care of themselves so that they will have no need for men. But what if there are men who happen to love them, men they happen to love in return? Is it not possible, that even if they do not require these men to make their plans happen, they could include the men in these plans?”
Helena twisted the ribbons of her jonquil sarcenet morning dress in her hands. “I do not know. I mean, I had not thought.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And what if these women wish to have daughters-of their own who can follow the splendid examples of their mothers to grow into independent young women themselves?”
Brett reached over to clasp her hand in his. “Did it never occur to you, Helena, that as a man who is madly in love with a highly intelligent and self-reliant woman, that I might someday hope to have daughters who are equally as intelligent and self-reliant as their mother? And,” he delivered his final shot, “one can be both a schoolmistress and a wife, you know, even a schoolmistress, a wife, and a mother.”
Tears rose in her eyes. It all sounded too perfect, too good to be true. Love could lead people into harboring the most unrealistic hopes and dreams that only brought hurt and disappointment when they faded away into reality. Why her own mother . . .
“Helena.” As if reading her daughter’s thoughts, the princess spoke up from the doorway, where she had been standing watching her daughter.
“Yes, Mama?”
“I know that what you have seen of my life has had a great effect on yours. You resolved never to be like me, never to suffer from the illusions that continually brought me unhappiness. You were going to avoid all that, to look to yourself to fulfill your every need. But I have learned a great deal over the years. And what I have learned is that there can be no greater happiness than being married to a good man who loves you.” She turned to smile at the prince, who stood behind her. “Do not lose that chance for happiness, my dear.”
“I won’t. Mama, I pro . . .” but Helena was allowed to say no more as one strong arm pulled her down toward him, and Brett’s lips claimed hers in a way that drove all doubts from her mind.
She loved him. He loved her. And in the end, that was all that mattered, all that had ever mattered.
Copyright © 2003 by Cynthia Johnson
Originally published by Signet (0451208269)
Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.