* * * *
Finally the courier came. The major had been found, alive, but just barely. A farmer returning to his homestead after the battle and the looting had followed a trail of blood to his barn and the wounded British officer. He did what he could, until an army doctor could be sent out and the wound, a saber gash from Stokely’s ribs to his thigh, could be dressed.
The field surgeon decided to leave the officer there, unconscious and unidentified, lest the massive wound reopen. Supplies were sent, and medicos when they could be spared, until the day Stokely revived somewhat and through his delirium managed to say his name. Then his frantic batman, who had been searching the field hospitals and helping with the gruesome task of mass burials to make sure his master was not among those sorry piles, came to take over the nursing, and messages could be sent home.
The latest report was that the wound might not prove mortal if the fever did not kill Stokely first.
* * * *
“I have to go to him,” Emilyann declared, clutching the memo and pacing around the drawing room. Nadine quickly moved a footstool and a firescreen out of her way.
“Of course you do,” replied Aunt Ingrid calmly, sitting with her embroidery as usual. “It is your duty as his wife to bring ease to his suffering, to succor him in his moment of need. Haven’t I been tending to your Uncle Morgan? I have been reading to him from the Bible like a faithful helpmate, seeing to it myself that he had nothing to eat but gruel and barley water, lest heavy meals retard the healing process.”
“Yes, but I swore to Smoky that I wouldn’t go to Belgium. I gave my word.”
“But, Emmy,” Nadine said, “he meant you shouldn’t follow the other British tourists to the parties and festivities there.”
“That’s right. I said I would not go for the fun, and this is not frivolous at all.” She had also promised Smoky not to put herself in danger by journeying to a battlefield, but the battle was over, and she was in enough danger here in England in any case. She looked over at Aunt Ingrid, who was placidly sewing the altar cloth, sincerely believing her faith could be worn like a protective mantle. Em said nothing about her fears, just “I’ll do it. I’ll go.”
“And I shall accompany you, of course,” Aunt Ingrid said in a voice that allowed no argument. “You cannot travel alone, naturally, even with trusted servants. That thought, I am sure, would cause dear Stokely unease. No, I shall go with you, to lend you countenance and also to bring aid and comfort to the many wounded. I see it as my duty to tend to the soldiers’ spiritual well-being.”
“I think they might need blankets more, Aunt, but—”
“And I’m coming, too,” Nadine put in.
“Not on your life,” her sister-in-law told her. “Smoky would kill both of us.”
“Not if he’s that sick. And I cannot stay here alone, you know.”
That was true. Em shuddered to think of all the trouble Nadine could get into on her own. If Aunt Ingrid went, too, Emilyann could not even deposit the plaguey chit with her, even if that was Bobo’s own home. “No, it will have to be Stockton. I’ll send you with the chaise and—”
“I won’t go. Besides, Em, I really can be a help. You cannot sit with Stokely every hour of the day yourself. Or else I can help Aunt Ingrid with the other wounded. I’m not just a china doll, you know. I have seen lots of injuries and illnesses in the country. I can help, truly.”
Em was undecided, but Aunt Ingrid thought it a good idea. “Let the gel come along. It will be good for her. She needs some depth.”
“You were not thinking of bringing Bobo, ah, Beauregard, along, were you, Aunt Ingrid?” she asked, looking at Nadine suspiciously.
“No, some of us are not meant for travail. He is not a good traveler, you know. Otherwise I am sure he would want to assist Stokely. Moreover, he must remain to care for his stepfather in my absence. Quite devoted he is to Morgan, you know. Such a good boy.”
Emilyann swallowed her reply and turned to Nadine. “There will be no parties, and you cannot take your pretty clothes, and I want to leave as soon as Jake can have the carriage loaded and arrangements made.”
“I know all that, silly. I
do
have other interests beside balls and clothes, you know. I’ll go see Cook and make sure she packs plenty of supplies so we don’t have to make frequent stops along the way, and some restorative pork’s-foot jelly, and whatever else she thinks an invalid might need.”
Em was already making lists. “Toinette can see to the packing, though we won’t know for how long. We can have a trunk shipped later. I’ll send one of the footmen to the apothecary. Tan-bark infusion, I think. He’ll know. We had better bring extra linens, muslin for bandages ...”
“I’ll take care of the last, dear,” Aunt Ingrid said, neatly folding her embroidery into the work basket. “The Ladies’ Guild has been rolling bandages throughout the war. I brought some home for Morgan to do while he lies abed. The devil makes work for idle hands, you know.” She tied her bonnet strings and continued, “I shall fetch those and my necessaries, leave instructions for my staff, and make my farewells to my family. I shall be back within the hour, unless I cannot find that stack of hymnals I meant to bring to the Gates of Hope almshouse.”
Emilyann stopped listening, hurrying through her own lists and notes, sending maids and footmen every which way, trying not to think of Smoky lying in a pool of blood on some barn floor. Mr. Butler could take care of writing to Geoff, and someone would have to get to the bank to cash a check for traveling money, and make a draft for whatever bank they would need later. Mr. Baxley would know. When were the packet boats scheduled, and could they guarantee a passage? If they had to wait another day ... Emilyann said a quick prayer.
“Perhaps Morgan recollects where I left the hymnals.”
* * * *
The hymnals were safe in the butler’s pantry. None of the pawnbrokers would take them. And Morgan was safe in his bed, gnashing his teeth. He was bruised, bandaged, and bad-tempered, even more than usual. Here was his golden opportunity, Emilyann and Ingrid together, in the same coach, on the same packet from Dover. An accident, a hold-up, a hole in the bottom of the bloody boat, and his problems would be over. If he could go along, how easy it would be to jostle Ingrid at the rail of the packet, bump into Emilyann during the crossing. And he could be the one to shout “Man overboard!” just a few minutes later.
Instead, oh, the injustice of it all, he lay in bed, both legs in splints, with only that attics-to-let Bobo for company. The tub of blubber could sink a boat by sitting in it, his fond steppapa groused, so instead of making futile plans, Morgan took a leaf from Ingrid’s book, and prayed.
He always knew that religion business was a hoax. Damn boat wasn’t struck by lightning at all.
Brussels was in chaos. Dazed men in tattered uniforms lined the curbs outside in the drizzling rain because there were no beds for them. Men with slings, crutches, bandages were everywhere, and no one seemed to be in charge. The hotels were all filled, mostly with tourists who had thought Brussels would be safe from the conflagration and who had been stranded minutes from a war zone by lack of transportation. They were leaving as fast as possible, but their rooms were taken by wounded officers who could pay to leave the horrid field hospitals.
It was already growing late in the day when the travelers found an establishment at least serving tea. Aunt Ingrid and Nadine needed a break, Emilyann decided, while she considered where to start to find rooms, or Smoky. Aunt Ingrid had already struck up conversation with a respectably dressed, middle-aged woman at a nearby table who directed Emilyann to the British Consulate. Mrs. Hammersmith, as she introduced herself, was an adjutant’s wife, the officer presently lying abed upstairs.
“Hammersmith will do, hardhead, don’t you know. It’s the other lads who need help. We’ve been doing what we can, the wives who follow the drum, and some of the English tourists who stayed have been regular troopers. Some haven’t, of course, afraid of gettin’ their hands dirty.” They could all hear the question in her voice, and Emilyann was quick to assure their new acquaintance that her little party was here to help.
“Never heard of your major, dearie, sorry to say, but I’ll make inquiries for you. Someone’s bound to know where they billeted an earl. You come tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll start asking questions.”
The harried junior legate at the embassy knew of only one empty property, a mansion on the edge of town belonging to a Bruxelloise Count d’Charteret who had sided with Napoleon. He was going to stay at his country property for now, for his health.
Emilyann and Jake found the manager, a weasely, garlic-breathed churl who growled that the place wasn’t for let. Money still ruled, though, even in hell. Especially in hell.
By the time Emilyann had settled negotiations, Aunt Ingrid was already surveying the possibilities of the enormous barracks of a house. The luxuriousness of the furnishings was absurd, considering Emilyann’s mission, and the fact that most of the servants required to keep up a place of this size had long since fled. Mrs. Hammersmith, who had come along to point the way, was confident they’d be back as soon as word went out that their wages would be paid. She and Aunt Ingrid set the grooms and footmen to dragging palettes and cots around, turning the downstairs rooms away from the family apartments into recovery wards. Nadine, naturally, went to oversee the unloading of their provisions and the organization of the kitchen to feed any number of hungry men.
It would do. Mounts being in even shorter supply in Brussels than rooms, Emilyann and Jake tacked up two horses from the carriage team with the count’s saddles.
“For the exorbitant rental I am paying the man,” she told the disapproving manager, “the saddles should be covered in gold leaf. Now, get out of my way and stop interfering, unless you wish me to write to the count myself.” She looked at the scurvy little lout and narrowed her eyes. “I wonder if he knows precisely how much gold I just handed over.”
There would be no more trouble from that quarter and at last, at long last, Lady Stokely could start trying to find her husband. The embassy had been no help, but directed her to army headquarters. Headquarters sent her to the Quartermaster’s Office, which passed her on to Command Operations, then Battalion Chief and Captain of the Watch. Night Watch, it turned out, because so much time was wasted, every petty officer searching through lists and scraps of paper and duty rosters.
They all knew of Major Lord Stokely, everyone praised his bravery, and they all had heard he was still at that farmhouse, somewhere. Thank God she was spared searching the field hospitals at least, but Lady Stokely’s temper was not appeased. Her family would have known to step back when Emilyann’s eyes flashed like that and her hands clenched into fists. The desk sergeant just shuffled some more papers.
“Is this the way you treat your heroes in this army?” she started, pounding that same desk until the papers flew around. “You
lose
them? Do you think Lord Wellington is going to be happy to know you have misplaced my husband? When I tell Uncle Arthur—”
Uncle Arthur? The sergeant began to see his career flash before his eyes.
“You and the rest of the imbecilic bureaucrats sit on your padded seats filing documents while your wounded men lie in God-knows-what backwater, and God better know, because you sure don’t! Well, I—”
It did not take long. The poor sergeant promised to have an address and directions delivered to Hotel Charteret by ten the next morning. Eight at the inn?
“Yes, sir, ah, ma’am. Here at dawn.”
* * * *
The tired sergeant told them they’d never get the heavy carriage down the rutted country lanes to the farmhouse, so they rode again, carrying what supplies they could tie on the backs of the horses and in saddlebags. They would make better time this way, too. The farm must have a dray to get produce to market, or Jake could ride back to rent a pony cart if they found Stokely could be moved.
The farm was not too far off, as the crow flies. But horses and humans needed paths and road signs and landmarks to find their way. They took wrong turns and had to slow the pace as the dirt roads turned to mire in the persistent rain. They had to skirt the nightmare scenes of the past battle or, horror-stricken, guide their reluctant mounts through.
It was midmorning when they reached a neat whitewashed homestead. No dogs barked, though, and no one came out to answer their calls. Emilyann did not wait for Jake to hand her down, or even to tie her horse. The old man clucked but secured both mounts and followed her slowly, pulling his damp collar closer around him.
“B’Gad, it’s Lady Stokely! I never thought you would—that is, I am right glad to see you, ma’am.” Micah Rigg came to the door to see about the commotion. Stokely’s batman looked even more grizzled and unkempt than the last time Emilyann had seen him. His gray mustachios drooped, he hadn’t shaved in days, nor changed his clothes nor slept, it appeared.
“The major ... ?”
“I’m that sorry for losing him, ma’am.”
“My God, he’s not dead!”
“No, he’s resting peaceful now,” he told her, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table when her knees looked to give out. “I mean losing him in the battle. The smoke and rain and all. Then all those field surgeries and temporary billets. I thought I would go pure crazy. Now, like I said, he’s resting, but it won’t last. Medicine wears off, he starts burning up again, and starts throwing hisself around. The sawbones says we can’t give him more, or it’ll kill him for sure.” Rigg sat down himself, that is, he collapsed into another of the wooden chairs, with a “Pardon, ma’am. It’s that run off my feet I am.”
Emilyann nodded, and poured out some of the hot tea they had brought in a towel-wrapped jug. Jake was bringing in wood to rekindle the meager fire in the cookstove. “Wet,” he muttered.
“Aye.” Rigg sipped his tea and shut his eyes. “I was going to get to it as soon as the major dropped to sleep. We was managing better till yesterday, when the farmer loped off. Said he went to fetch his wife back from her papa’s up north, safer, you know. But the French ate his pigs and the British ate his cows, and the horses trampled everything else, so I don’t know if’n he’ll come back.” He wiped a hand over his whiskers. “Doctor’s not due back till the end of the week, if he gets here. I didn’t see how I was to make another night, ma’am.”