Lord of Ice (38 page)

They stayed in Brussels for two and a half months, billeted in Gothic splendor at the Hotel de Ville, which was full of British officers. Their men, the rank and file, poured across the Channel in large transport ships, arriving by the tens of thousands. The officers sought quarters in the town, while the rank and file bivouacked in the surrounding countryside, a great mass of tough veterans and fresh-faced boys eager to get a taste of martial glory. Yet all could do nothing but wait for the action to begin.

April stretched on, flowers burgeoning; the rich Flanders countryside bloomed. More British civilians attached to the army and nobles from all the allied countries of the Coalition flooded into the city to join in the gaiety and excitement. There were parties and balls every night, and hardly anything was danced but the risqué waltz. There were nightly promenades of the fashionable in the park and comedies in the theaters; but the plays were all in French, so Miranda did not bother with them, for she barely understood a word. In any case, Damien and Miranda declined at least as many invitations as they accepted, preferring to spend every possible moment together, all their attentions focused on each other.

Though the atmosphere in Brussels was one of levity, a darker sense of restlessness pervaded it just under the surface; the men, at least, knew they were there for a war and that some of them were going to die. Damien knew it. Miranda brooded on it. The knowledge made their every moment together all the more precious.

For now, her beloved colonel’s duties were light. While he drilled his men at their camp a couple of miles south of the city, Miranda kept busy to distract herself from the gnawing anxiety of what would happen when Napoleon had his army in order and was ready to fight. She toured the cathedral with the friends she had made of the other officers’ wives and shopped for souvenirs of Brussels lace to send back to London for her kinswomen. Frequent, treasured letters from Alice, Bel, Lizzie, and Jacinda kept her well informed of the happenings at home.

At the end of April, Jacinda was presented at court and was now officially “out.” She rhapsodized over the lavish gown she had worn before the regent and the queen, describing every detail, but complained bitterly that the resumption of hostilities had ruined the Season that she had longed for every day of her seventeen years. London, she wrote, was
devoid
of interesting young gentlemen. All she could hope for was better luck next year. She wanted to come to Brussels, where “everyone” had gone, but her brothers unanimously forbade her.

Alice sent her lists of both boys’ and girls’ names that she and Lucien were considering for their child, whose arrival was expected in September. Miranda had her twentieth birthday on the eleventh of May. Still there was no hint of battle. The waiting was growing nerve-racking. She did not know how the troops in the field could withstand it. She went out to visit them from time to time with Damien and made an effort to be particularly merry in order to lift their spirits.

In late May, word came that Bel had given birth to a robustly healthy boy. Both mother and son were thriving; Hawkscliffe could not have been prouder. They named him Robert William, of course, after his papa; the newborn’s courtesy title was the earl of Morley.

As May gave way to June, Miranda could not seem to shake off a persistent nausea from the increasing heat and humidity. Nothing laid out on the lavish tables of the hostesses nor the meals offered at the hotel agreed with her. It went on for more than a fortnight. She did not complain of it to her husband, but finally sent for the doctor one day while he was off reviewing his troops. The estimable doctor then made the great revelation: She was not ill. She was pregnant.

Somehow, she was shocked to the marrow, though God knew she ought not have been, with Damien’s insatiable appetites. She was waiting for the perfect moment to tell him when a Prussian messenger came tearing into the heart of Brussels and rushed straight to Wellington’s headquarters. Shortly thereafter, the news spread like wildfire through the city that Napoleon had attacked the Prussian troops only half a day’s ride southward.

South? she thought in horror, realizing that her husband was in that direction with his men. As she wove through the lobby of the grand hotel, the officers she knew tried to reassure her, saying that it might be nothing at all, just some outposts firing on each other. Yet Wellington sent out the order that the army be ready to march at a moment’s notice. She was beside herself with anxiety, waiting for Damien to appear.

When he finally came, it was evening and a steady rain had been pounding the cobblestones of the plaza. She was waiting on a chair in the lobby of the hotel when she saw him, MacHugh, and Sutherland come riding into the square, mud-splattered, rain running off the brims of their shakos. Heedless of the weather, she was on her feet, running out the door to him, before he had even halted his horse in front of the hotel. She glanced at the other two. MacHugh was looking fierce, but Sutherland appeared shaken. Damien sprang down off his mount and stalked toward her, sweeping off his shako. She threw herself into his arms.

“Are you all right? I’ve been so worried. Were you near it?”

He did not answer, just held her hard for a moment. The wet and mud of his clothes soiled hers, but she didn’t care. His skin was warm and his kiss tasted of rain. “We saw the retreat. Napoleon tore the Prussians to shreds. It’s best you know now that this is going to be a large battle, Miranda. I can’t stay.”

“Can’t you come in and have supper, at least?”

He waved off her suggestion. “No time.”

His urgency increased her alarm. “Do you have all your provisions? Everything you need?”

He smiled at her then. “Almost,” he said meaningfully, leaning down to steal a quick kiss. “Get back inside. I have to go.”

“But why? Wellington is at the Richmonds’ ball. Surely it’s not that serious—”

“He has to put in an appearance there, love,” he said as he walked her back into the hotel. “If he were to leave now, the city would panic. The civilians would flee north, and that would demoralize the soldiers. It’s just for show. He’ll be joining us soon at the front. My battalion has been ordered to be ready by the time he gets there. I don’t know how long this will take, but I will do my best to keep you informed of where I am. You may need to evacuate to Antwerp. I’ll let you know.”

Tears suddenly flooded her eyes. This was the moment she had been dreading—the moment of parting. She almost couldn’t believe it had come. She held onto him. “Damien.”

He pulled her into his arms again. “Don’t cry. I beg you, please, don’t.”

She knew he needed her to be strong for him now more than ever. She felt as though she could fall senseless with fear and grief or shatter into tiny pieces from sheer weakness, but somehow she steeled herself, reaching down into the depths of her being to pull up the resolve worthy of such a man. She swallowed hard, clung fast to her courage, and moved back a small space, glancing up to meet his gaze.

His face was stark, his gray eyes fierce with tortured love.

“I love you,” she whispered. “We both do.” As she said it, she took his hand gently, pressed it flat against her belly, and stared meaningfully into his eyes.

He blinked as though he was not sure he had heard her correctly; then his jaw dropped. “You mean—?”

She managed a rueful smile and nodded.

“Are you sure?” he breathed.

“Mm-hmm.”

“When?”

“March.”

“Oh, my God,” he said dazedly. He encircled her in his arms and held her. She could feel him trembling at the news, though he had not so much as blinked an eye at the prospect of battle. He kissed her with hot, ardent devotion, then pulled back, staring into her eyes with a burning, white ferocity that made her very soul thrill. “I will come back to you,” he vowed in a savage whisper.

“If God wills it,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “I will come back.”

She cried out as he abruptly pulled away from her and threw open the lobby doors, marching back to his horse. She followed to the doorway and watched him swing up into the saddle, renewed will and precision in his every movement. MacHugh and Sutherland nodded to her. Damien’s gleaming, gray eyes flashed like a silvery blade as he kissed his fingertips to her, then reeled his tall horse around and galloped off with his men to fight the French.

Long after he was out of sight, Miranda stood right in the spot where he had left her, sobbing, until her maid came and led her back up to their rooms.

The rain fell harder.

Later that night, Miranda heard that another dispatch had come from General Blücher, delivered to Wellington at the Richmond ball. Whatever its contents, it had resulted in a great, swift exodus of officers and the commander himself from the very ballroom; by dawn, the whole army was marching south, where Damien and his battalion had already started. Many of the civilians were leaving Brussels for Antwerp, but Damien had not ordered Miranda to do so, nor had she any desire to remove herself one mile farther from where he was, even if it was dangerous to stay. Winterleys did not run, she told her maid.

By the time morning came, the rain had stopped, but the day remained overcast under moody skies. From her room high in the hotel, she could see the blue-gray smoke that rose far away over the battle, but when the windows and doors in her room continued rattling with the constant, far-off rumbling of artillery, she could no longer stand the sound and rushed out to a gathering of the officers’ wives. She joined their efforts to prepare for the wounded before they began arriving and was glad to have something to do. She noticed from their nervous chatter that the other wives all seemed to think that love would protect their husbands from all harm. Miranda did not think that. Watching her parents drown had taught her that love was not powerful enough to keep boats afloat when they were going down, and she did not suppose it was powerful enough to deflect bullets. In fact, deep down, she dared not hope too much that she would ever see Damien alive again, despite his gallant promise.

Then a courier brought a message from him on Saturday night, and she wept with gratitude to read that he was safe. She kissed the paper that his hand had touched. He said they had fought General Ney at Quatre Bras and had given the French a sound beating, but the thing was far from over. That night, she did not sleep for more than an hour and prayed more than she had in her entire twenty years:
Please, Lord, let my baby know his father. Don’t make him grow up an orphan as I did.

Sunday, June the eighteenth, came and went. She went to service at the cathedral, and the priest tried to give them courage while the great stained windows rattled like the devil was outside trying to find a way in. Her maid was as impassive as the great sphinx of Egypt, but Miranda was raw and jittery with worry and exhaustion. By evening, word reached them of a great slaughter in a field called Waterloo. It was still going on.

Then the wounded started arriving. Miranda rushed out to see if her help was needed and to gather what news she could. Nobody seemed to have heard anything about the Hundred Thirty-sixth.

“The cavalry has seen much action,” a man with his face bandaged from a saber cut told her. “We may all have to evacuate for Antwerp if Blücher does not send reinforcements soon.”

She threw herself into helping the bloody, mangled masses streaming into the city by the cartload. The houses of the rich turned into hospitals. Miranda went among them for hours, giving them water, hiding her horror at their gruesome wounds, bandaging them when she could, murmuring praise to them for their bravery as they waited for their turn with the surgeon. Pale, shaking, clammy with sweat and fear, she ignored her own exhaustion and did her best to keep a check on the constant thoughts of Damien that agonized her.

Night deepened. She heard that her husband’s regiment had held superbly before the advance of Napoleon’s elite Imperial Guard, repulsing them near the end of the day, but the casualties had been high, someone said. Panic rose in her, but she tamped it down again and again.

New casualty lists were passed around, but she could not bring herself to look at them. One by one, she saw her friends among the officers’ wives crumple as the news was brought to them of their husbands’ deaths, or of wounds so desperate that they could not be moved from the little town called Waterloo, where the doctors were hastily tending them. Miranda hardened herself grimly for the news that, with every passing moment, seemed inevitable. She would have his child, she told herself. The baby would have to be enough.

Even the tidings of Wellington’s great victory barely stirred her. Napoleon had been taken into custody, but even this meant nothing to her because she had not yet learned where Damien was, and all the while, the wounded kept coming, overflowing the town. A young cavalryman she gave water to begged her to stay by him because he was dying. His trusty mount had been destroyed under him, and he had been trampled in the cavalry charge, his legs crushed; then a French lancer had punctured his lung to finish him off. Miranda wiped the boy’s brow with a wet cloth and sang softly to him until he lost consciousness. She barely realized she was crying at her own helplessness to save him, to stop all of this. He died right before her eyes, and then she heard a soft, low, weary voice behind her.