A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman?
was the big battle, not the one two days before when the cannons were also heard. It seemed to Emmaline that plenty of wounded men came into Brussels after that one. If this were the big battle, it could only get worse.
Tante Voletta had insisted they close the shop and pack up all the lace to hide in the attic.
“Those English will use our lace for bandages, I am sure of it,” her aunt had said. “They are gauche.”
For two days they packed away lace. It helped make the time pass, but now that the task was done, nothing was left to distract her. Emmaline’s heart seized with fear at each battle sound. Did that cannon ball strike Claude? Was he anywhere near it? Would he come back to her? Or had he died already, in that first battle? Had he been placed at the front of the charge so the musket balls would hit him first?
He was a soldier’s son, she forced herself to remember. Perhaps he was born with a soldier’s sense of self-preservation. Besides, she would know if he died. She was certain she would feel his life leave his body as profoundly as she felt when she gave birth to him.
Tante Voletta sent her out to purchase stores of food. Many of the English had fled to Antwerp, but still what shops were open had few supplies. Perhaps other shopkeepers had hidden their stock, as well.
The streets remained busy with wagons carrying supplies, people fleeing or wounded arriving. Rumours were everywhere. On one corner it was believed that Napoleon was at the city gates; on another corner the Allies had him in retreat. Either way the rumours went made Emmaline feel sick inside. There could be no possible victory for her in this battle.
A wagon of wounded British soldiers came into view. Emmaline ran alongside it. “What news of the battle?” she asked them.
“Bloody hard going,” one of the soldiers answered, which told her nothing.
Their red coats reminded her of Gabriel. Perhaps they knew how he fared. “Are you Royal Scots?”
“No, ma’am,” he answered.
The wagon rolled on.
Emmaline put her fingers on her chest, feeling for the beautiful ring she wore on a chain around her neck, hidden under her clothing. Somehow she did not believe a mere war could kill Gabriel Deane. He was too clever, too strong and too good a man to be lost to battle. She only wished they could have parted with loving words, not the harsh ones that had escaped her lips when she refused his proposal.
She closed her eyes and could still see the wounded look on his face. Why had he not understood? It was impossible for her to marry Gabriel, a British soldier, when her son so vehemently hated him. Gabriel should have known that.
The sound of a hundred hooves thundered in her ears. She dropped her basket as an entire regiment of Hanoverian cavalry galloped past her. Emmaline froze, expecting to see Napoleon himself on the heels of these German horsemen.
No one came.
She bent down to retrieve her basket and was seized with a sharp anxiety, like shafts piercing her skin. No more shops—she just wanted to go home, to wait in solitude for some final word of who was winning and who was losing, who was alive and who had died. Whether Claude would return to her.
The towers of St Michael’s Cathedral loomed above her. She glanced up at them and whispered a prayer that God would deliver Claude back to her.
She added a prayer for Gabriel. Not for him to return, but for him to live.
She crossed herself and hurried to the lace shop, walking around the back and entering the yard through the gate. After opening the rear door of the shop, she climbed the stairs to her aunt’s rooms.
“This is all you could purchase?” Her aunt took the basket from Emmaline’s hands and peered inside it.
She wrapped her arms around her still-shaking chest. “There was not much to buy.”
A cannon boomed and they both turned towards the sound.
“I am weary of that!” her aunt exclaimed. She examined each item in the basket. “Did you hear any news of the battle?”
Emmaline shook her head. “No one knows the outcome.”
“Pfft!” Tante Voletta waved a hand. “Napoleon will win.”
Emmaline kept silent. She did not want the French to win. Claude would never leave the army if that happened. “Do you need my company? Because I would rather go to my own rooms.”
“Go,” her aunt said. “But come to me when you learn of the victory.”
Emmaline, however, did not go out in search of news.
She spent the evening on her sofa, hugging her knees and repeating her prayers. She lay down and pressed her hand against the ring under her dress. As she felt its circle in her fingers, she watched the flame of a single candle. The cannonade stopped and as darkness fell she could hear the rumble of wagons passing through the streets. Her candle grew shorter and shorter and soon her eyes grew heavy. She fought to stay awake. How could she sleep while the fate of her son was in question?
The sounds in the street were rhythmic and lulling. Her eyes closed.
And flew open again.
A loud rapping at the door startled her awake. She sat up, heart pounding.
“Emmaline,” she heard a man’s voice. “Open the door.”
Gabriel!
She flew to the door and pulled it open.
He was a mere shadow in the dark yard, but as he stepped inside, she could see he carried something over his shoulder.
Her eyes widened.
“I’ve brought your son.”
“Claude!” Her hands clasped over her mouth. Was he dead? “Claude!”
“He’s wounded.” Without another word he carried him upstairs.
She grabbed the candle and followed. Claude’s head lolled back and forth with each step Gabriel made.
Gabriel opened the door to Claude’s room and placed him on the bed. Immediately he began to undress him.
Emmaline lit more candles, her hands trembling. “Where is he hurt?”
“His head.” He ripped away Claude’s bloody shirt. “His neck. And leg.”
She stood by the bed, finally able to touch her son. She helped pull off his trousers, stained with his blood. He’d been shot in the thigh, but a quick examination showed that the musket ball had passed through. On his neck, right above his collarbone, was another wound. She placed a finger near the spot.
Claude flinched and moaned—signs of life, at least.
“Water.” Gabriel’s voice sounded forced. “Need to wash. See the wounds better.”
She sprang to her feet. “I’ll fetch some.”
She returned with a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, a basin and cup. As she placed them on the bedside table, Gabriel swayed and looked as if he might collapse to the floor.
She hurried to him, helping him regain his balance. “Are you injured, Gabriel?”
He shook his head. “Tired.”
“Sit in the chair.” She eased him over to a wooden chair near the bed and ran to pour him a cup of the water.
He drank it greedily, but gestured for her to return to Claude.
Emmaline washed away blood and mud and bits of grass and cloth from her son’s skin and from his hair. Beneath his matted hair was a long gash. A musket ball had scraped him, but had not penetrated. His thigh had a huge hole in it from which blood still oozed. His chest was riddled with round red spots, turning to bruises.
“His chest plate stopped some of the musket balls,” Gabriel said.