Читать книгу A Rose for Major Flint - Louise Allen - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Rose opened the kitchen door, uncertain of her welcome. Was she supposed to stay out of the way of the soldiers after their reaction when she had sent them scattering into the courtyard? On this, the second morning in the warm, cheerful house, she was beginning to feel stronger and the scream in her head had grown quiet, almost as soft as the buzzing of a field of drowsy bees on a summer’s day. She had slept in the little dressing room and waited until Adam had left the bedchamber before venturing out.

Maggie was at the hearth, stirring something in a big pot, and Adam and Hawkins were slumped in chairs either side of the table, their backs to her, relaxed like two great hounds after an exhausting chase.

As Rose hesitated on the threshold, Maggie jerked her head towards a battered armchair beside the fire and poured a mug of tea. Rose took it with a smile of thanks and snuggled quietly into the patchwork cushions as Hawkins picked up what was obviously a thread of conversation.

‘If Boney’s beat, then the war’s over, surely? They’ve got the French king all ready to come back, the nobs in Vienna will carry on negotiating and drawing lines on the maps, and what’ll happen to us?’

‘West Indies?’ Adam said.

‘They say it’s a death trap. Getting killed in battle’s one thing, don’t fancy going all that way to die of yellow fever.’

‘Might get ordered home.’ Adam drained his mug and set it down with a thump on the table. ‘We could be Hyde Park soldiers, firing off guns for Prinny’s parties. That would be fun.’

‘Or we’d be harassing rioting industrial workers up north. Not what I call soldiering,’ Hawkins muttered.

‘Me neither, Jerry.’ Adam slumped lower in his chair, his accent roughening. They were like two sergeants together, Rose realised. Mates, not officer and NCO. ‘I’ve been a soldier half my life. This is family.’

There was a brooding silence. Maggie lowered herself into the chair opposite Rose and picked up a sock and darning wool from the basket beside her.

‘East India Company looks the best bet to me,’ Hawkins said. ‘They’re using more artillery, so I hear, and there’s a chance of good money.’

‘I’d been thinking about that.’ Adam sat up straighter and reached across the table to rip a crust off the loaf. ‘Or there’s the Continental princelings. All those German states with standing armies, they need good artillerymen and they’re prepared to pay.’

‘You’d end up a general,’ Hawkins said.

Adam snorted. ‘You’d make major,’ he countered, dragging the crust through the butter and biting into it. ‘And think of the fancy uniforms.’

Hawkins snorted. ‘Yeah, that’s you all right, prancing about like a circus ringmaster, all gold braid and plumed hats.’

‘East India Company, then. Sensible uniforms, a real army with real fighting, good money.’ Adam sounded cheered. ‘That sounds fine to me. Hate not having a plan.’

Rose’s heart sank. India? But why am I upset about that? He isn’t mine... It is so far away.

‘You’ve always got a plan, thank goodness,’ Hawkins said. ‘Puts the wind up me, not knowing what’s happening next. What the hell would we do if we had to leave the army?’

‘Damned if I know.’ Adam dropped the remains of the crust on the table as though his appetite had suddenly deserted him. ‘The army’s who we are, not what we do.’

The door to the yard swung open as he spoke and Moss stumped in, bringing the smell of fresh air and stables with him. ‘What are you two brooding about? Spouting philosophy by the sound of it.’

‘East India Company,’ Hawkins said as he got to his feet and caught the door before it closed, Adam at his heels. ‘The major’s got a plan.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Moss said to Maggie as the door banged closed behind the two men. ‘Suppose that makes sense. It’d break the major, being a peacetime soldier.’

‘He could sell out,’ Maggie suggested, biting off a loose end of wool and rolling the socks up.

‘Flint? You’re joking. He made himself an officer and a gentleman from nothing. He belongs in the army, heart and soul. Not like me, I’d had enough by the time I got out. And I’d got you.’ He winked at Maggie. ‘Him, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.’ He glanced across and saw who was in the other chair. ‘Well, Miss Rose. You’re blooming this morning. You want to give me a hand with the lads?’

* * *

Rose filled the mug with water again and looked across to the one remaining soldier she had not yet taken a drink to, the one with the head wound. He lay quietly on his straw mattress, some of his fitter mates playing cards at his feet. Occasionally one would look at him, murmur a few words of encouragement, touch his leg as if to reassure him they wouldn’t leave him.

She had been avoiding him quite deliberately. Now, as she made herself look at the soldier’s shrouded head, the scream in her head grew louder.

Coward, she told herself. It had helped to come downstairs, to make herself smile and work alongside Maggie and Moss, Lucille and the men. They had accepted her silence and treated her with more respect than she had expected from common soldiers. Their gratitude for anything she did for them seemed genuine.

Now she crouched down beside the still figure and forced herself to touch his arm. He started and turned his head with a jerk and the bandage slipped to reveal the mess of torn flesh beneath. From across the yard came a loud bang.

Gunfire. Then her head was full of the scream, her silent scream.

‘Miss Rose!’ someone shouted. Men jumped to their feet, people ran out from the kitchen. Hands seized her, shook her. She found she was on her feet, trembling violently, held by fingers so tight they hurt.

‘Hysterical,’ a man’s voice said. ‘I’ll have to slap her. Fetch cold water.’

‘Don’t touch her.’ It was a snarl, a familiar, fierce growl. Rose found herself in Adam’s arms, held against his chest. Safe. ‘Rose, what happened?’

‘Dixon’s bandage slipped,’ someone volunteered. ‘And then that shutter on the loose hinge dropped off and she jumped up, white as a sheet, and started shaking. Don’t know why Miss Rose is so upset, sir. She was fine with some really nasty sights—Dan’s leg, for one.’

‘Facial wounds seem to distress her,’ Adam said. ‘It’s all right, Rose. Lieutenant Foster is looking after Dixon, he’s going to be fine.’

He made her walk and then pushed her down and she landed with a thump that jerked her out of the nightmare a little. She was in the kitchen, sitting on one of the hard wooden chairs. Not on the battlefield, not surrounded by mangled bodies and the screaming, twitching wounded.

Rose blinked and the now-familiar faces swam into focus. Adam, Maggie, Sergeant Hawkins, Moss. Little Lucille, the maid-of-all-work, her eyes wide and shocked.

‘Best get her up to bed, Major,’ Maggie said. ‘Look how she’s trembling.’

‘No.’ Adam hunkered down in front of her. ‘Rose, this is not your nightmare, this is here and now. No more shooting, no more dying. The surgeon is here to look after the men. Take a deep breath and see.’

His voice was firm, without any sympathy or softness in it. Adam expected her to be calm and he would not ask anything of her that she could not do. Rose closed her eyes and took the deep breath, then another, and opened her eyes again. That poor man, Private Dixon. She got to her feet and saw Adam wave the others, who had tensed when she moved, back into their seats. The door to the yard seemed a long way away, but her feet took her there, and through and across to the outhouse where the surgeon was bandaging the private’s head.

She knelt down beside Dixon, took his hand and held it until he was lying back down again. His one-eyed gaze stayed on her face. ‘Sorry, Miss Rose.’

He was sorry? She lifted his hand to her cheek, then put it down and cupped her palm gently around his bandaged face, smiled and shook her head. I’m sorry.

The surgeon got to his feet and picked up his bag. ‘Are you steadier now?’

Yes. She frowned at him. He was the one who had wanted to slap her, the one who had shaken her. She held out her hand and was pleased there was no tremor now. Can’t you see?

‘Are you dumb?’ he asked, as he took her elbow and steered her towards the kitchen door.

Rose shook off his hand. I can’t speak. I can walk.

Adam was standing by the window. He was watching me. The unsmiling nod he gave her was like a hug.

‘Is this a congenital condition?’ the surgeon demanded of the room in general. Rose found herself pressed down into the chair again. The man tipped up her chin. ‘Open your mouth.’

No. She gritted her teeth and shook her head.

‘There’s a deformity of the palate perhaps. She can hear normally?’ His fingers pressed against the hinge of her jaw.

‘I suspect you are in a good way to having your fingers bitten, Lieutenant,’ Adam said. ‘Leave her be. Rose will speak when she is ready, not before.’

Thank you. She could tell that he could read her expression and the hard mouth just kicked up at the corner into a suspicion of a smile. She could understand the look on the men’s faces when he spoke to them. They’d follow him into hell—they had followed him into hell—because they knew he had confidence in them and they knew he would never abandon them. He was not going to abandon her either, those blue eyes told her.

‘If you say so, sir,’ Lieutenant Foster said and, to Rose’s relief, he left her side and went to take the mug of tea Maggie held out to him. He cleared his throat and flicked open his notebook. ‘As I was explaining to the sergeant, everything is pretty much under control, Hawkins will fill you in with the details, sir, but I’m rather concerned about Major Bartlett.’

‘What about him?’ Adam demanded. ‘He’s not wounded, is he?’

‘He is. It must have been a nasty blow to the head. He seems to have significant memory loss, he’s not exactly rational and the circumstances under which he is being nursed... To be frank, sir, I am not sure what to tell the colonel.’

‘If he’s in some hovel, then we must get him moved. Damn it, are there any more of our officers wounded that no one’s bothered to tell me about?’

He looked furious, Rose thought, glad those hard blue eyes were not looking at her.

‘Er...no, none, sir. And Bartlett’s in very comfortable lodgings in the city. Perfectly clean, plenty of water, decent kitchens. A lady’s um...residence.’ The lieutenant appeared fascinated by something in his notebook.

‘Stop stammering, man. So Major Bartlett has found himself yet another lady friend. This is hardly a novel scandal to rock Brussels’ society, now, is it?’

‘I couldn’t...er...comment, sir.’

‘Give me the address. I’ll go now.’ Flint extended a hand and the surgeon scribbled a few lines and passed the note across. ‘Rue de Regence? Respectable area.’

‘Quite. Very.’ The surgeon was red around the ears.

Adam slapped his shako on his head. ‘I won’t be long. Rose, you keep busy and don’t tease Lieutenant Foster while I’m gone.’

‘Well, and what are you blushing like a maiden for, Lieutenant?’ Maggie demanded as the door banged behind Adam. ‘He’s not ended up in a brothel, has he?’ She grinned at Rose. ‘A bit of a lad is our Major Bartlett.’

‘A brothel? No, far from it! I really do not consider it my place to say, Mrs Moss. I must be going. I will come back tomorrow and Moss knows my lodgings in case anyone needs me urgently.’

‘If it wasn’t that Randall’s Rogues never ran from anything, I’d say the lieutenant was in full retreat,’ Moss remarked. He stuck a taper in the fire and lit his pipe. ‘Now what’s Tom Cat Bartlett up to?’

* * *

Flint found the address easily enough. Foster had been correct, the house was in a respectable street, well kept and as quiet as any at the moment, given the state the city was in.

The door was answered by a woman as well kept and respectable as her house. ‘Sir?’

‘Major Flint. I am calling on Major Bartlett.’

Her lips thinned but she made no move to stand aside. ‘Indeed, sir.’

‘I assume, as he is wounded, he is in?’ Don’t say he’s died. We’ve lost too many.

‘Oh, he’s in, sir, but her ladyship said I wasn’t to admit anyone but the surgeon, sir.’

Ladyship? Bartlett had found himself very cosy lodgings indeed by the sound of it. Presumably he was languishing on the snow-white bosom of some high-ranking officer’s wife while her husband was otherwise engaged chasing a fugitive emperor back to Paris. ‘I am that surgeon’s senior officer.’

‘Oh, in that case, sir, please to come in.’ She had decided he was another surgeon, it seemed. ‘Top of the stairs on the right, sir. Can you find your own way? Only I’ve left the bread rising—’

‘Thank you.’ Flint was halfway up the stairs, too irritated with Bartlett to worry about interrupting a tender tête-à-tête. If he was well enough to be taking an interest in women, then he was well enough to get up and share some of the workload.

He gave a cursory rap on the door and strode in. ‘Bartlett. They tell me you’re—’ Languishing certainly, and on a bosom which was probably snow-white, but which was, thankfully, covered by tumbling blond tresses. The owner of the tresses was curled up on the bed, her arms around the wounded major, her expensively simple muslin gown rucked up to her knees and her blue eyes glaring at Flint.

His own blue eyes, Randall’s blue eyes, the eyes of his half-sister, Lady Sarah Latymor.

Of all the circumstances to meet his half-sister for the first time. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Bartlett closed his eyes in a reasonable imitation of a manly swoon. Lady Sarah laid him tenderly on the pillows and bounced off the bed like a mother cat defending its sole kit. Flint averted his gaze while she wrestled her creased gown into some sort of order.

‘You!’ she uttered in tones that would have done credit to Sarah Siddons as Lady Macbeth. ‘You’re Adam Flint. Justin wouldn’t introduce me to you at the review.’

‘He wouldn’t introduce you to any of the Rogues,’ Flint snapped. ‘And for very good reason.’

‘I know the reason he wouldn’t introduce me to you. You’re my natural brother and I’m not supposed to know any of you exist, let alone associate with you.’

‘None of the Rogues should be associating with you—let alone him.’ He stabbed a finger at Bartlett. Damn it, now he had to worry about his sister’s morals on top of everything else. Half-brothers were bad enough, but at least they were fellow soldiers, there was a connection there, an understanding. Sisters were another matter. He had never been responsible for a respectable lady in his life and he did not want to start now.

She swept her hair over one shoulder and began to braid it into a rough plait. ‘And stop shouting. Poor Tom’s head hurts.’

‘Poor Tom’s head is going to be ripped from his shoulders just as soon as he’s on his feet,’ Flint threatened. And his balls are doomed as well, just as soon as Randall’s halfway fit. ‘Now get your cloak and bonnet and I’ll take you home this minute. You can’t stay here.’ He shouldn’t feel anything other than irritated, he thought, but he did. Or was that just because he’d felt so unaccountably churned up over Gideon?

‘I am home. This is my lodging.’ She glared at him.

‘Well, then, I’ll take you to your brother.’ He glared back. I really do not like this chit.

‘You can’t do that. Mary Endacott says Justin’s too ill to be disturbed.’

‘Then don’t disturb him.’

‘I will, if I could only get to him! They told me that Gideon’s dead, and I feel it, but I can’t believe it somehow.’ Her voice trailed off and she looked young and hurt and vulnerable.

‘Believe it.’ He couldn’t cope with another female on his hands and he was damn sure he didn’t want to revisit that tableau amidst the shrieking chaos of Quatre Bras as Randall held his dying brother. Their dying brother. ‘What’s wrong with Bartlett? If you won’t leave, then I’ll take him out of here.’

‘You can’t, he has a head wound. Lieutenant Foster said it would be dangerous to move him.’ She shifted to stand between Flint and the bed. He took her by the waist and moved her bodily out of the way, then, before the first of her blows landed on his back, bent over the other man.

‘Bartlett! Tom! Open your eyes.’ He was very white, the bandaging was extensive and there was bruising everywhere Flint could see. There was, he realised, quite a lot of the major to be seen. The man was naked.

Slowly Bartlett’s eyes opened. He stared up at Flint without any sign of recognition. ‘Sir?’

‘Don’t Sir me, Bartlett, we’re the same rank, damn it.’

‘We are?’ he asked dully. His eyelids closed before Flint could answer, as though this was of no interest to him at all.

‘Have you shown him his uniform?’ Flint demanded.

‘He had been stripped by looters when I found him.’ Sarah’s angry colour faded. She compressed her lips for a moment as though fighting back nausea.

She had found him? This drawing-room darling had ventured into that hell and come back with Bartlett? No wonder she looked queasy—it was a wonder she could sleep at night. Perhaps his half-sister had her share of the Latymor backbone, after all.

‘They had taken everything except his breeches and one boot,’ she added. ‘The vultures.’

‘Vultures...?’ Bartlett’s voice trailed off.

‘You see?’ Lady Sarah tugged at Flint’s arm. ‘Leave him alone. He has no idea who he is, what happened. He doesn’t know you. He seems to think he’s a lieutenant. Perhaps in his mind he is back when he first joined the army.’

It looked genuine enough, and the man was no coward, nor a shirker, despite his overactive social life. On the other hand, it would be just like Tom Cat Bartlett to spot a good thing—and a lovely young woman—when he came across them. Something unexpected, something suspiciously like brotherly protectiveness, stirred. ‘Have you seen the head wound?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She swallowed hard. ‘It was dreadful, you could see the skull—and I had to stitch it. When Lieutenant Foster saw it later he said it must have been a cavalry sabre because nothing else could slice like that and give such a heavy blow at the same time.’ She bit her lip. ‘Tom is going to get better. He must.’

He probably would, unless there was internal bleeding within the skull. That could kill almost without warning, days after a blow, but there was no point in telling her that, she would only cling tighter to the man.

Something scratched at the door and Sarah hurried across the room. ‘Oh, Ben, shush! You know Madame le Brun doesn’t want you upstairs.’ She opened it and staggered back as a great black hairy dog hurtled into the room and flung itself on Flint.

‘Sit.’ It subsided on to his feet, panting, its tail thrashing the carpet. ‘How the devil did Dog get here?’

‘His name’s Ben. I found him tied to a baggage wagon, the poor thing. I recognised him from the review. And he led me to Justin. And Tom. And helped me fight off the deserter who tried to steal my horse. So I had to take care of him after he’d done so much for me.’

Flint snapped his fingers and the dog sat up, leaning against his leg. ‘Good boy.’ He scratched it behind the ear, obscurely comforted that the beast was safe. ‘Dog is coming back with me, now. And so are you. Pack a bag. I’m taking you to Randall’s house.’

‘I won’t go.’ She sat down on the end of the bed, one hand possessively on Bartlett’s leg. ‘You’d have to carry me kicking and screaming.’

‘It can be arranged,’ Flint muttered.

‘I don’t have to do what you say. You’re only my half-brother and if Justin won’t introduce you to me, I’m sure you’re not fit company for me.’ She glared at him, full of fierce bravado and not far from tears, he thought. ‘How are you so sure Gideon is dead?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Because I was there,’ Flint said, caught off balance before he could think.

‘Are you certain?’

‘Certain I was there or certain that he’s dead? Yes to both. You don’t get up after wounds like that.’

‘Was...was he shot? Was it quick? In the head...?’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Sabre wounds, several.’ The angry colour ebbed out of Sarah’s cheeks. She had been on the battlefield, she must have seen the slashed bodies. Her imagination was doing the rest. He though she was going to faint, or be sick, but it seemed he underestimated his sister.

‘Get out.’ She sprang to her feet and pointed at the door. ‘Get out and if you come back here again disturbing Tom then I’ll use his pistols on you.’