The Luck of the Devil (5 page)

T
he battles went on and on, in sweltering summer heat, in torrential rains of the damp season. They marched through deserted towns, towns where they were welcomed as heroes and towns where they were spit on for the havoc in the people's lives. Some days the supply wagons kept up with the march, and other days there was nothing to eat but what the men carried in their packs or could buy, catch, or steal.

At the siege of Albuera, Carey's hair was singed and his jacket caught fire from the lighted powder kegs tossed down on the British. He stripped the coat off and fought in his shirtsleeves, taking a lance in the shoulder, but he made it over the scaling ladders to help in the British victory. Victory be damned. So many men were lost, they said, that Wellesley cried. If there was not already a term for Pyrrhic victory, that hellhole would have been it. Major Delverson was not the only man in the injured officers' commandeered quarters to wake sweating with nightmares. His hair grew in more gray than black, but Rudd was able to find his master's coat and prop the cameo locket open next to Carey's bedside.

The British suffered more losses at Salamanca when they faced Marmont, and the major was concussed from being knocked off his horse twice. Confused, he got lost during the retreat. He managed to come to his senses that night somewhere behind the French
lines, so he liberated a mount from a suddenly incapacitated sentry and a bottle of wine from an unguarded supply wagon. He made it back to the British side with information on the enemy's troop strength and position, and a severe headache.

Wellesley was in retreat toward Ciudad Rodrigo, with the retrenchment taking enough time that supply trains could reach the troops with a new batch of letters. Emonda's letter was all about Lord Clyme's health, his leg, his chest, his heart. For a moment's self-pity Carey wished someone cared that much for him, then he worried she was fretting the old gentleman to an early death, but Clyme had wanted a comfort in his waning years and he had it.

Suzannah was full of her plans for the coming year. You must know I shall finish my studies next semester. I'll be seventeen and ready to be presented! My best friend Angela said her mother would sponsor me, if Lord Clyme is not well enough to travel to London. Emmy would never leave him, so do say I may go, so I can be there for Harry's wedding. Shall you be home? Joy of joys, there was no mention of forbidden love or Heywood Jeffers, and Carey was tempted to let his little sister get a taste of the metropolis if Emonda endorsed the plan and this Angela's family. Suzannah might be ready to try her wings, now that she was over that calf-love. Carey was not sure London was ready for her.

His bailiff wrote, and his man of business. All was in train. Harry scribbled a message on the back of a betting slip, about a new Thoroughbred he was racing, called Lucky in Carey's honor. Your horse came up lame on the way to the meets in Darlington, so Joss sent the nag home. That night the tracks stables caught fire. Can you believe it?

Why not? Here he was quartered in a Spanish estancia with three exquisite señoritas to cater to him and five other young officers, and he had to turn down their favors. He had an ague. The other fellows didn't; they all ended up with the pox.

The battle for the town itself was another bloodbath, with the French coming from three directions, but Wellesley had finally learned Napoleon's tactics and was prepared. The British held and claimed the victory.

At one point late in the battle Carey stood over a fallen officer who lay wounded while two French troopers sought to finish them both off. Delverson was exhausted, his sword arm throbbing, his impaired left hand barely able to hold the dagger. But he stood, holding the Frenchmen at bay, exhorting his comrade.

"Come on, Runyon, try to get up. Help is on the way, man. Just lift your sword and show them what the British are made of."

The mounted reinforcements arrived to rout the attackers, just in time to see Runyon raise his saber and take a slice off the back of Delverson's trousers, showing more British than usual on the field of battle. The slash also took a cut off Carey's posterior, so he marched on with the men to Badajos while Rudd led his horse. They all had a well-deserved laugh and agreed it could have been much, much worse for the Lucky Devil and his descendants.

Badajos was the worst. Five thousand British soldiers died there, and Carey took a rifle ball in the thigh. The war was over for him at last and he could finally go home, if he lived long enough.

The wound was grievous. It did not fester, but it would not heal, and only his faithful batman kept the surgeons from amputation. The major was weak from loss of blood and fevers, delirious half the time and near unconscious with the pain the rest. In one of Carey's rare lucid moments he made Rudd swear not to make him an addict, so the batman kept the doses of laudanum to the minimum, no matter how it hurt him to see his master's agony. The doctors shook their heads.

Carey recovered slowly, still too troubled by fevers to face the sail home, even after the leg started to heal. It would never be perfect again, the doctors told him, between bouts of chills and tremors; no amount of willpower or exercise could repair shattered bone. Carey's too-bright eyes remembered his fallen friends, then looked at Rudd, hobbling on his peg leg, and knew he must not be bitter. Things could have been worse. He would walk as soon as the fogs lifted from his head, and he would walk up the gangplank of the first ship headed to England. So what if he could not dance at Harry's wedding?

While Carey was fighting the army's battles, Rowanne was having a few skirmishes of her own in Bath.

"No, Aunt Cora, I shall not marry Sir Tristan. He has fat lips."

"Cat nips? By Jupiter, girl, you try my patience. How many times do I have to tell you it don't matter if the fellow is bald and bilious, he's richer than Golden Ball." Aunt Cora flailed her skinny arms in the air, dangling bracelets. Her beaked nose quivered in indignation. "And just what was wrong with Lord Harberry? I was sure I gave my permission for him to pay his addresses."

"Moth balls."

"Moist halls? I heard his pile was very pretty, newly renovated. That's why he's looking for a bride."

"No, he smells like moth balls, and it is not just his clothing."

"And I suppose you are going to say you turned down Rodman and his twenty thousand pounds because he has sore gums."

Rowanne looked at her aunt in puzzlement. "Could you live with a man who constantly picks his teeth?"

"Oh, get out of here, you wretched creature. Go walk the dog or something. I need to think."

Toodles and Rowanne had come to an understanding. She stopped laughing at the dog's haircut, and Toodles stopped snapping at her ankles when she passed in the hall. They still cordially disliked each other, grumbling and growling at each other's company, but they both enjoyed the walks in the park. As soon as they were out of Aunt Cora's sight, Rowanne slipped the dog's lead and they went their separate ways. Rowanne got to stroll among the flowers or bring her book to one of the benches, while Toodles harassed the squirrels, dug holes, and rolled about in every kind of muck and mire a dog could adore. A half an hour or so later Rowanne would whistle, the poodle would grudgingly return, and Aunt Cora would exclaim over her pet's condition. Rowanne was not ordered to exercise the beast for at least another week.

If only it was as easy to get out of the daily visit to the Pump Rooms Miss Wimberly might be more content. Aunt Cora took the waters and the gossip as a daily ritual and insisted on her niece's escort. One never knew who would be there, she declared.

Rowanne knew very well who would be there, at the height of the London Season: octogenarians and invalids and ladies of a certain age—and the Captain Sharps who came to prey on them. She thought there must be more fortune hunters in Bath than there were doctors, unbelievable as it seemed. When there was a healthy young man, or even one not so young anymore, as Rowanne reached a more mature age herself, the gentleman was less likely to be paying a duty call on his ailing mother than to be looking out for a wealthy widow. The men visiting relatives looked at her with relief; the others gazed at her speculatively. They all rushed to gain an introduction through Aunt Cora, and that little martinet was in her glory. Rowanne gave the boredom-sufferers cursory inspection, the basket-scramblers short shrift. Aunt Cora got madder and madder, and Rowanne more depressed.

Rowanne was disgruntled at herself for being in Bath in the first place, anxious because she was indeed nearing her own deadline for matrimony, and furious at her aunt for throwing unsuitable men at her. To Aunt Cora, suitable meant any gentleman not in a wheeled chair. However would Rowanne stand having Aunt Cora's meddling when they went to London in the spring? And if Gabriel thought Rowanne's efforts at matchmaking were a nuisance, wait until their aunt got her claws into him! Poor Gabe.

At least his letters kept Rowanne informed of the happenings in Town. Papers reached Bath's lending libraries days late, so Rowanne was pleased with any other communication from what she considered the real world. Not the gossip—Aunt Cora's cronies took care of that—but Gabe wrote of the doings in the Lords, the progress of the war, the newest books. Miss Grimble's latest volume was published and she was appearing at literary salons, he said, but the book's popularity was overshadowed by Byron's newest work being snapped off the shelves. Gabe was sure no one remembered Rowanne's connection, or cared. She could come home anytime, as long as she had Aunt Cora to lend her countenance. Little did he know!

The war news was not good. The British seemed to be winning, but the casualty lists were appalling. Captain Delverson's name appeared frequently, on the injured lists, on the commendations dispatches.
It was just like that bounder, Rowanne told herself, to be in the thick of things. She did not care about him at all, of course, he was just another Englishman fighting for his country, nearly giving up his infuriating, immoral, impossible life! He was a major now, and would likely be home for his cousin's wedding in the spring, by all accounts sure to be the affair of the Season. Rowanne would have to make good and certain that Aunt Cora never got sight of the handsome makebait.

As the warm weather gave way to late fall and winter, Bath became even drearier. Wind sent raw drizzle through the thickest cloak and walking became uncomfortable. Fewer visitors came to the spa, and fewer of her aunt's older friends dared brave the weather to venture to the Pump Rooms or pay morning calls, so Lady Silber became more cranky and querulous and Rowanne grew even more bored. If she wanted to become a recluse, she thought, she could have hidden out in the London house, where at least she had her hobbies. Here she had only been able to do some watercolors and a bit of needlework, the only occupations her aunt considered ladylike, besides reading penny novels. Rowanne even came to appreciate Aunt Emonda's letters, full of Uncle Donald's health though they were, and taking Toodles for his walk became the highlight of Rowanne's day, especially because she knew the dog hated getting his feet wet.

While Major Delverson lay drenched in sweat from the heat of his fevers and the airless room, with Rudd near to wearing out his wooden leg with changing the sodden linens every half hour, England was having one of its coldest winters.

Bath turned even more dismal, if possible. The cold rain changed to sleet and snow, which melted into gray slush that froze at night, making the sloped streets of the town more like sledding hills. The wind raged off the water, buffeting anyone foolish enough to poke his nose out of doors.

Aunt Cora was one such fool. She insisted on her glass of mineral water each day for her rheumatics. Rowanne thought it was more in hopes of a new bachelor's appearance, but she was glad enough for the outing, so did not usually complain. She had a new gold velvet pelisse with ermine lining, and furlined boots to match, so was warm enough walking beside Aunt Cora's chair. One morning, however, the roads were too treacherous even for the chairmen. Rowanne told her aunt the men did not want to make the short trip.

"What's that? Two old mice?"

"Too cold and icy, Aunt. We have to go back in."

"Nonsense. Lady Turnbull is bringing her son. War injuries. You can be sure a veteran ain't afraid of slippery roads."

So they set out. Not two doors down, one of the chairmen lost his footing, skewing the poles so the other could not hold his grip. The chair tipped over, dumping Aunt Cora right out into a snowbank, luckily. Nothing broke, but Lady Silber was shaken, bruised, and sorely distressed. The physician had to be sent for, and she was even more distressed when that worthy man recommended complete bed rest, no excitement, and no spirits to elevate the blood.

For the next weeks Rowanne began to have pity on Lady Clyme, being nursemaid to a cantankerous old man. The woman must be a saint, if Uncle Donald was anything like Aunt Cora, for her letters never whined nor complained about her lot. Rowanne's own patience was wearing thin after the first whiff of brandy on her aunt's breath, the third call for lavender water, and the umpteenth refusal to take the prescribed medicines. Lady Silber's maid handled the invalid better, so Rowanne walked to the Pump Room to fetch Aunt Cora's glass of water, haunted the lending library, and exercised the dog when the weather permitted. No, she did not put his knitted sweater on Toodles.

Finally the roads were passable and Gabe came down from London. He did not come to relieve her in attempting to entertain their aunt as she supposed, which was a good thing, for Lady Silber was not interested in his dry-as-dust news and took to throwing pillows at Gabe for being a slowtop who refused to do his duty by the family. He was not in Bath to rescue his sister from exile, either, although she could not have left her aunt then, for all the good her presence did. At least she kept the housemaids from giving notice when Cora started pitching her gruel at them. Gabe had sad news of his own. Uncle Donald had passed away.