He stared down at the irksome old woman. “Mind your own business, Winnie. It isn’t what it seems.”
“It is exactly what it seems. And you have the mark to show for it.”
She pointed to his chest, and he tucked his chin to look at his shirtfront. At the blood-red smear over his heart.
Behind them, Sophie let out a gasp. He looked over in alarm, and saw her press her hands over her mouth, staring at something across the room. Wesley followed her gaze, and his gut twisted. When he’d whipped the brush away in frustration, he’d sent a spray of paint over her portrait of Stephen. A drop of red ran down the captain’s face like blood. Like an omen.
Sophie ran from the room.
Wesley squeezed his eyes closed and released an irritated sigh. Angry with himself and with the woman before him. He braced his hands on his hips and faced her.
“You think you know so much, old woman. But do you know I love her?”
She lowered the broom. “I know you think you do, and will say anything to get what you want.”
“It isn’t like that. We have history together. We belong together.”
“You say you love her. But would you be true to her?”
“Of course I would.”
She shook her head. “I think it quite likely you will be tempted to betray her this very night, before the jester sings and the cock crows.”
He scowled. “What a bag of moonshine. Does Marsh believe all your superstitious tricks? I don’t.” He turned toward the portrait, considering how best to repair it. He would probably only vex Sophie more if he dared touch her precious Captain Black. Instead he stepped around Miss Whitney and crossed the room.
At the door he turned back. “You keep your mouth closed about what you think you saw here today, and I won’t mention your skulking about to my mother, who would not think twice about dismissing you.”
“Stephen won’t let her.”
“Stephen isn’t here.”
He saw fear flash in the woman’s eyes and regretted his idle threat. He meant the old nurse no harm, but he’d dashed well had enough of her interruptions and prophetic nonsense.
Wesley returned to Sophie’s room that night. He felt terrible about the scene in the schoolroom and wanted to apologize for damaging her portrait. And for allowing his frustration to get the better of him. He’d never in his life forced a kiss on a woman before today. Never had to. He knew he’d behaved badly and hoped she would forgive him. He also hoped that, without Miss Whitney there to interrupt them, Sophie might even admit her feelings for him.
He softly knocked, and when no answer came, tried the latch. Locked.
Dash it.
He rested his forehead on the cool wood, but it did nothing to cool his frustration. He was not such an idiot to break down the door and wake the whole house. He didn’t want to incur the wrath of his entire family.
“May I help you, sir . . . ?” came a tentative voice.
He turned in alarm, but it was only a housemaid on her way up the attic stairs.
“No. I had something I wished to ask my . . . sister. But she is already asleep and I don’t want to wake her. I shall ask her in the morning.”
He waited until the maid had ascended out of sight, then started up toward his own room. Realizing he would not sleep for hours, he retrieved a candle lamp and continued up the next set of stairs. He might as well go to the schoolroom and work on Sophie’s portrait, since it appeared that was as close as he would get to her that night.
The maid Flora paused at the landing and looked back down at him. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. I am just heading up to the schoolroom.”
“Are you now? For a moment I thought you might be following me. Not that I would mind if you were. . . .”
She waited at the railing while he slowly mounted the remaining stairs. He had noticed the girl before, though she was relatively new, he believed. She was a pretty, buxom girl with dark curls peeping out from beneath her cap. If not for her crooked teeth, she might be worth painting. Or . . .
For a moment he considered what she might be offering. She was clearly flirting with him, and her room was probably just around the corner. He was frustrated—in more ways than one. He felt as if Sophie had betrayed him by marrying Stephen. She should be his wife, sharing his bed.
He paused at the top of the stairs and stood looking at the girl, the hills and valleys of her face and figure showing to good advantage by candlelight.
A slow smile lifted her mouth. “A handsome man like you ought not spend his nights alone . . .”
For a moment, he was tempted to accept the maid’s offer, but then Winnie’s words came back to him. “You will be tempted to betray her this very night, before the jester sings and the cock crows.”
Wesley pressed his eyes closed, blocking out the vision of the plump figure before him, fighting for the self-control to subjugate the urge for temporary pleasure beneath his future happiness. He didn’t want to be the man Miss Whitney clearly thought he was. He didn’t want to ruin things with Sophie, if there was any chance at all. . . .
Over the girl’s shoulder a decorative plaster mask on the wall caught his eye. He stilled, peering at it. It was a jester’s face—one of several masks throughout the manor. This one’s mouth was wide open in an O, as if singing. Wesley knew of two similar masks in the house that disguised squints. Might this one as well? Might there be someone watching him at that very moment? He shivered, even as he told himself he was being foolish. No one had used those squints in years.
Wesley cleared his throat. “I am just going into the schoolroom to paint. Alone. And you had better get some sleep. I know Mrs. Hill makes the staff rise before the cock crows.”
He stopped in his tracks, his own words echoing through his mind.
Seeing him hesitate, the girl tried again. “You sure? A body gets awful lonely in an empty bed. . . .”
Yes, he does.
Flora tried once more. “I saw you outside Mrs. Overtree’s door, but you’re wasting your time there. A cold one, she is. I have it on good authority the captain slept in his dressing room.”
Wesley reared his head back in surprise. “You’re joking. . . . Really?”
She nodded eagerly.
Would Captain Black have put up with that? Wesley wanted to believe the girl and exalted at the thought that maybe Sophie had refused Marsh for his sake. If so, was it possible they had never consummated the marriage . . . ? It seemed too good to be true. Even though non-consummation alone was not grounds for annulment in England, the thought gave him hope.
He drew himself up. “Good night, Flora. There’s a good girl. Work hard and don’t gossip and you’ll no doubt have a long and successful career here at Overtree Hall.”
Her smile fell. Her confidence with it. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As the girl disappeared around the corner, Wesley stood staring at the mask of the singing jester.
Then, thinking the better of tempting fate—or remaining in tempting proximity to a flirtatious housemaid, Wesley changed his mind about painting and went downstairs, retreating into his own room.
He had no specific plan, but he saw his retreat as a minor victory. A first step in becoming a better man. To earning Sophie’s trust all over again.
In the morning after breakfast, he went back upstairs, ready to deliver a setdown to his old, critical foe.
He tapped on Winnie’s door, and when she called “Yes?” he opened the latch and stepped inside the dreaded room. Bad memories of noses in corners and scoldings surrounded him.
Miss Whitney looked up at him from her breakfast tray, dressed in one of the same blue dresses with a white collar she’d worn as long as he could remember.
“You were wrong, Winnie,” he announced.
“Was I?” she mused. “I said you would be tempted to betray her and you were. Beyond that, I am glad to be wrong.”
His triumph deflated. How
had she guessed?
She tilted her head, giving him that knowing look that had so often struck irritation—or fear of consequences—in his young heart.
“Well, Master Wesley, perhaps you are growing up at last.”
After that, Wesley began meeting with the new estate manager, Mr. Boyle, and their tenants and estate workers, doing his best to fill Marsh’s big boots. He was heir to Overtree Hall, after all, so perhaps it was time to assume the duties that role entailed. It would prove to his family and to Sophie that he was responsible. And hopefully he would prove it to himself as well.
He also began planning a painting of The Last Supper to be placed over the chancel archway, at the church warden’s request. Though he found out soon enough that his mother had instigated the idea and was acting as his patron, probably hoping to keep him busy. And perhaps away from his new sister-in-law.
chapter 24
News of Napoleon Bonaparte’s return from exile had caused an urgent recall of the 28th North Gloucestershire regiment. Stephen had rejoined his men in Ireland where they were garrisoned. As soon as the men assembled, they’d boarded transports and sailed for Ostend, Belgium, to join Wellington’s troops and fight Napoleon’s rebuilt army. Stephen had dashed off a few lines to Sophie before embarking, but there had not been time to write again. Their warm parting had given him hope for the future, but for now he needed to focus on the task at hand.
The Duke of Wellington decided to try to stop the French advance at a crossroads called Quatre Bras—four arms—some twenty-five miles south of Brussels. If Boney’s men succeeded in taking the crossroads, the path of the Prussians would be cut off. The allies would then be unable to join forces against Napoleon, who was doing all he could to divide and conquer.
Wellington was determined to defend that crossroads and defeat Napoleon.
To that end, the 28th marched south in company with the 1st Royal Scots, only stopping to sleep for a few hours before starting again.
On June the 15th, Stephen forced himself awake at dawn. Around him men slept on, snored, or grumbled, a few already at work at small fires and cooking pots. Very soon, all would rise in a bustle of activity. They would march within the hour.
Taking advantage of the few quiet moments, Stephen read from his worn copy of the New Testament and drank a cup of bitter smouch—a cheap tea rumored to be made from ash leaves steeped in sheep’s dung. It tasted even worse than it sounded, but any warm liquid was welcome on that damp morning.
Ensign Hornsby came and sat by him, asking bluntly, “Are you a Methodist, sir?”
Stephen chuckled, guessing who had put him up to the question. “No.”
“Then why are you always reading that Bible of yours? The sergeant says only chaplains and dashed Methodists do so, outside of Sundays.”
With a wry grin, Stephen shook his head. “He’s wrong about that. The sergeant’s a crusty old bird, but he says his prayers every morning just as I do, make no mistake.” Stephen shifted to face the young man, whom he had known through several campaigns now. He supposed Hornsby wasn’t so young any longer. But his auburn hair and freckles made him look young, and reminded him of Angela Blake.
Stephen said, “We are marching into battle, Hornsby. And while I have every confidence in the 28th, and in Wellington, and our eventual victory, not all of us will live to see it.” He didn’t mention his lingering doubts about surviving this campaign. He didn’t want to worry him. “Whatever happens, I’ll be all right, because my soul is square with God.”
“How do you know, sir? If you’ll excuse my asking. It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good man, but . . .”
“I am not a good man, not by any measure,” Stephen replied. “And thank God I don’t have to rely on my own merit. I’d never be good enough to deserve to live forever with a holy God. But Christ is, and He already died to cover my sins. He sacrificed His earthly life for my eternal one. And for yours, and for everyone willing to accept Him.”
“Like when you jumped in front of me in Talavera?” Hornsby asked eagerly. “And the French saber meant for me struck you instead?”
Stephen looked at the young officer in surprise. “I . . . don’t recall many details of that battle. But a good analogy, yes.”
“You’re just being modest, sir. It’s clear as day to me, and always shall be. Every time I see that scar of yours, I know it should be mine—or more likely my death—had you not shoved me out of the way.” Hornsby’s gaze shifted to his cheek. “I hope you don’t mind it, sir.”
“I wasn’t much to look at before I got this, Hornsby, so don’t give it a second thought. I don’t.” Or I won’t, Stephen resolved. Not anymore.
That afternoon, they reached the crossroads and joined the others who had arrived before them. Sir Thomas Picton, commander of the fifth division, rode over to greet him. He informed Stephen that the battle had begun slowly that morning with a few skirmishes but was now rapidly escalating. He was glad to receive some reinforcements, though they still awaited the Prussians.
Stephen and his men took up position on a knoll covered by tall stalks of rye. The overgrown fields made it hard to see and provided hiding places for approaching enemy scouts, spies, and sharpshooters.
Smoke from cannon fire wafted ominously across the battlefield, obscuring the enemies’ position in the distance. An occasional mortar round landed among the troops, and the men instinctively spread out to make themselves a more difficult target for the French artillery. Some men dropped to one knee, as if the slender blades of grain would somehow stop an eight-pound shot.
Around him, Stephen heard the sounds of fighting—gunfire, commands, grunts—as other regiments engaged in battle. It was only a matter of time before it was their turn. Their turn to kill or be killed. Their turn to fight the overpowering impulse to run. An infantryman’s job was to stand there and shoot in the face of oncoming slaughter and probable death. The worst part was the waiting.
While many other regiments had to make do with inexperienced recruits, most of the men who served beside Stephen had been through all this before. They were veterans of the Peninsula War and the Egypt campaign that had brought the 28th its greatest glory. Even so, he knew the fate of his men was directly related to his ability to make decisions quickly in the heat of battle, while the very men he knew and loved were dropping dead beside him. There would be no time to shed a tear or even to flinch. And afterward he would have to live with the consequences.
Sir Thomas Picton rode his horse past the men. “You’ll be all right, lads. Just remember, kill their officers first, aim at the bellies of the infantry and at the horses of the cavalry.”
He left them with the rallying cry, “28th, remember Egypt!”
The men cheered and the bandsmen began to play.
Stephen, however, remained somber. Using his spyglass, he stared toward the river that marked enemy lines, straining to catch any glimpse of the French through the growing smoke. Off to the left he thought he saw movement. He blinked and looked again and there it was, the unmistakable outline of a horse in full gallop some five hundred yards away. The smoke cleared just enough to reveal more horses galloping toward them. A cavalry charge.
“To the square, to the square!” Stephen shouted at the top of his lungs. Every second was crucial. He had to get his men into the defensive formation that would allow them to withstand the attack.
But over the gunfire and competing shouts, many did not hear. Or stood frozen in terror.
“Hornsby! To the square! Wilson—move!” Stephen grabbed several younger men and started shoving them into position. His old sergeant joined him, barking orders like a mastiff. If they didn’t move, they’d be slaughtered.
“Left flank here, right flank over there!”
The experienced men of the 28th sprang into action, their incessant drilling and training paying off.
A square was made up of hundreds of men, four ranks deep, with room at the center for supplies, aides, and the wounde
d. The outside line of infantry dropped to one knee and planted the butts of their muskets on the ground. They extended their bayonets upward to form a hedge of steel the cavalry horses would be reluctant to breach. Behind them soldiers knelt with their bayonets pointing outward to form another line of defense. The two remaining ranks were comprised of standing men with “Brown Bess” muskets, firing and then reloading in turn.
Stephen shouted orders, directing soldiers into vital positions in the square. “Lane, fill the gap. Stanley, raise that bayonet.”
The flag bearer carried the regiment’s colors safely inside, followed by the bandsmen and several pieces of field artillery. Any cannons left outside the square would be attacked and quickly disabled.
Glancing to his right, Stephen was disheartened to see several battalions in disarray. Other officers had been slow to recognize the threat and their lesser-trained troops were scattering in confusion. Some officers retreated, or remained well behind their troops in relative safety. But Stephen felt responsible for his men, some of them younger than Kate. He could not stand back.
Climbing atop one of the cannons for a better vantage point, Stephen saw that the fierce French cavalry were now within two hundred yards of their position, the red plumes above their helmets streaming behind them. In seconds they would be upon them.
“Prepare to fire on my command!” Stephen bellowed.
The men braced themselves and raised their guns to their shoulders. The exact timing of firing was critical. Too soon and the volley would be ineffective. Too late and the mortally wounded horses and riders would come crashing into the square.
His men stood firm, but Stephen could see the fear in the eyes of all but the most hardened veterans. Fear was a luxury he had rarely allowed himself. But love for Sophie made him feel vulnerable. Made him want to live as never before, which would only make his death more likely. Fear stole focus. Courage. Hadn’t his grandfather reminded him of that over and over again?
Stephen could feel the vibrations from the thundering horses about to engulf them like a swarm of locusts. The French riders raised their long curved sabers high above their heads as trumpets sounded the attack.