The Waltzing Widow (28 page)
It was hours later when at last he emerged from beyond the forest onto the plain. He yanked up his reins, thunderstruck and shaken to the bone by the horror of what he saw. Only days before there had been tall cornfields waving in the warm wind as far as the eye could see. Now the corn was broken and trampled into the mud. The dead lying there among the ruins of nature could not be numbered. The mangled and lifeless bodies were stripped of everything of the smallest value.
Near a hedge that had been completely trodden down, where the fighting had been particularly severe and the carnage dreadful, huge pits were filled with hundreds of dead, British and French alike. Lord Kenmare averted his eyes and kicked his horse forward once more, but the images of the massive grave remained with him and he knew with sickened certainty that he would never forget.
Besides the tremendous pits, the dead were being burnt in different places, and their ashes, mingled with the dust, were being scattered over the field. A wayward breeze brought the tainted smoke to Lord Kenmare, and he gagged. Clenching his jaw, he rode on slowly, looking for the particular regimental uniforms that he had come to find.
Slowly, slowly, Lord Kenmare became aware that here and there life still breathed among the dead. He had been so stricken with horror that he had seen the entire field of battle as one vast charnel pile of death, not realizing that the wounded lay there as well. But the occasional groans or the harsh breathing that he heard as he traveled past at last penetrated to his consciousness.
That was perhaps the most affecting thing of all, to see those wounded lying wherever they had fallen or had been able to crawl. Half-crazed with pain, they had endured the driving rain and now a day of blazing heat was upon them. They lay without succor, without food or drink, and with little hope of regaining such common necessities.
It was when Lord Kenmare had almost despaired of finding what he sought that he came across a wounded man in a torn and filthy uniform barely recognizable as that of the Fifth Division. The soldier did not look up when the gelding's shadow fell across him, but instead continued to sit on the ground and hold his comrade's lifeless hand in his own.
"He just now sighed and went away,” he said.
The unexpected sound of the soldier's roughened voice startled Lord Kenmare. He looked sharply from the soldier's lowered head to the face of the dead man and he realized what the soldier had meant. “I am so very sorry,” he said inadequately.
The soldier raised his head and tears were coursing down his face."We both knew that it was hopeless for him. But I couldn't very well leave him alone, could I?"
Lord Kenmare fought the tightening of his own throat. “No, you couldn't do that. You've been a damn fine friend."
The soldier nodded gravely, returning his attention to his dead comrade. “Yes. That is what he said."
A silence fell. The gelding eventually began to become restless and pawed the ground. Lord Kenmare corrected his mount with a slight pressure of the reins. He detested himself for breaking into the wounded soldier's private vigil of grief, but nevertheless he said quietly, “I am seeking two others of the Fifth—Captain Wilson-Jones and an ensign by the name of William Spence."
The soldier did not look up, nor did he give any other indication that he had heard. Lord Kenmare, reflecting with pity that the man had gone demented, was on the point of giving up and going on when he was surprised once more by the soldier's voice.
"Wilson-Jones, yes. I saw him. Wounded in the thigh, he was, but still on his feet when the French broke and ran. Likely joined the pursuit."
"And Spence?” Lord Kenmare asked quickly. But his luck had played out. The soldier never said another word to him.
Again Lord Kenmare was faced with an unpleasant choice.
He surveyed the battlefield. Other figures moved about among the dead and wounded, seeking those they knew or attempting to offer aid to those still living. He had been astoundingly naive to take on the task of finding two men among so many, but now through an incredible piece of luck he at least knew that Wilson-Jones had probably survived. He had the choice of remaining to search for Lady Mary's son or going on to trace the path of the scattered armies in hopes of finding his brother-in-law, who could very possibly tell him what he wanted to know about William Spence.
The reluctant decision made, Lord Kenmare stepped down from his horse. He was careful to keep the reins firmly in hand, as the gelding had exhibited a reluctance to remain amid the smell of death. The earl began the slow progress of searching the area around the soldier he had spoken with in an ever-widening ragged circle. This was where the Fifth Division had made its fight and this was where he would find Ensign William Spence if the boy had not survived. His mind quickly became numbed to the necessary task of turning over sprawled bodies so that he could see the dead faces.
The sun was high in the sky and brutally hot when he finally gave up. Lord Kenmare gathered the reins in his hand, mounted, and turned his gelding in the direction of the Forest of Soignies.
He squared his shoulders, attempting to free himself of the queer feeling of failure that had dropped over him. But he could not rid himself of it. Though he was relieved not to have found William Spence's body, he was also all too aware that in the carnage he might have overlooked the boy, who could have been too gravely wounded to call out, or that the boy might have been one of those already tossed into the pits.
The memory of Lady Mary's anxious and yet hopeful eyes continued to haunt him. He had to continue looking, for he felt the greatest reluctance to return to the town house without something definite to relate to Lady Mary. The earl decided that his only course now was to make a pilgrimage to every hospital tent and every other gathering place of the wounded, in hopes of discovering the fate of one lone soldier among so many.
Once free of the carnage of mingled living and dead, he set himself to the difficult task of making his way safely through to Brussels.
The Earl of Kenmare went into the drawing-room, where he had been told he would find Lady Mary. She looked up and an unmistakable light leapt to her eyes. She rose from the settee to meet him. “My lord! You are back,” she said with a warm smile. As she looked into his face, her own expression abruptly altered. “My lord, what has occurred?"
Lord Kenmare clasped her hands gently between his. “I have come to tell you of William, my dear lady."
The color drained from Lady Mary's face, leaving her chalk white. In a hoarsened voice she said, “Tell me quickly! Is William dead?"
The earl felt compassion as he looked into her eyes. “I am sorry, my lady,” he said gently. “I have not been able to find him, nor any word of him. I very much fear that he must be."
Lady Mary swayed, blindly throwing out her free hand in denial. Even as Lord Kenmare exclaimed and moved to catch her, she fainted dead away. She lay limply in his arms, her face icy when he touched her skin, and she did not rouse when he sharply called her name.
The earl called for assistance. The butler immediately entered the drawing room, alarmed by the sharp summons. He was appalled at sight of the senseless lady in his master's embrace. “My lord! What can I do?"
Lord Kenmare shot swift orders for Lady Mary's maid to be alerted. He gathered Lady Mary up in his arms and carried her upstairs to her bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed and straightened, pausing to look down at her.
She appeared so white, so frail, to have born the burdens that had assailed her over the last tumultuous days. But he knew the steel that lay beneath that exterior. At least, he thought he had known it. He had counted upon Lady Mary's ongoing strength to carry her past the news of William's probable death. Instead his thoughtlessness had completely devastated her. His fists clenched in impotent helplessness.
The maid entered then. “My lord! I am told that my mistress has fainted. Why, she has never done so before!” the woman exclaimed, staring in alarm at her still, pale mistress.
"Lady Mary has sustained a grievous shock,” Lord Kenmare said.
The maid's eyes widened in horrified comprehension. She put one hand to her mouth. “Never tell me that young Master William is dead!"
The earl nodded. “I very much fear so. Pray see to your mistress's comfort. I shall send for a physician."
He swung around on his heel and left the bedroom. He was shaking in reaction. Intolerable to be so much in love with a woman and yet be unable to tell her so for fear of her rejection. All he had been able to do was to give her unbearable news, he thought, despairing that Lady Mary would ever forgive him.
Lady Mary did not regain consciousness.
The thoroughly frightened maid relayed the fact to the earl. Lord Kenmare was almost beside himself with alarm. He had sent for a physician to come from one of the hospitals set up in the town, but his messenger was told over and over again that unfortunately there were none available to spare for any but the direst emergencies. “By God, I shall make it known that this is an emergency of the highest order!'’ he vowed, setting off himself to dragoon the first physician that he could find.
He returned much later with a physician. The physician was hollow-eyed from lack of sleep and his mouth seemed permanently drawn tight because of the horrible things that he had seen and had to do among the wounded. He was brusque to the point of rudeness to be hauled away from his innumerable patients only to see to a foolish lady's fainting spell. But once he learned that Lady Mary had not wakened from her swoon, he became as attentive as the earl could wish.
While Lord Kenmare paced the hall outside the bedroom, the physician examined Lady Mary. She stirred faintly and murmured something incoherent at his touch and the sound of his voice, but she did not waken from her stupor.
The physician came out of the bedroom with a frown carved deep in his face. He gently closed the door, ignoring the earl's impatient query until he had done so. Lord Kenmare ushered him into his own apartment so that they could speak privately. The physician glanced at the earl. “The lady has obviously suffered a most severe shock. What happened?"
Lord Kenmare ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I informed Lady Mary that I believed her son to be dead. I had no notion what the news would do to her. She has been such a constant steadying influence upon us all throughout everything, and I thought her strength sufficient to bear ... My God, what have I done?” He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
The physician said in a hard voice, “It will hardly mend matters for you to fall to pieces, my lord."
The earl straightened as though suddenly cut by a whip. His eyes blazed. “I assure you that you need not concern yourself on my behalf, sir!” he said coldly.
"Good.” The physician smiled slightly. “I apologize for my roughness, my lord. I felt it was required by the moment. I have seen so much true suffering that I have little sympathy left for unavailing guilt. As for the lady, she will take no real hurt from this long sleep of hers. If she is like so many others who have been out tending the wounded, I suspect that her ladyship wore herself to the bone caring for others while criminally neglecting herself. Her nerves must already have been stretched taut when she was given the sad news of her son. I am not at all surprised by her collapse."
"Then she will recover?” Lord Kenmare's voice had quickened, his expression showing the fear that he felt he hoped for too much.
"I should rather think so. Give orders that she is to be kept warm, and have someone ply her as well as they are able with drink and broth. Her ladyship will almost certainly waken with a sense of wonderment at all the fuss."
The earl seized the man's hand and pumped it, all his anger dissolved. “Thank you, sir."
"Yes ... well, I must be going. I have been away from hospital too long as it is.” The physician turned toward the door, the earl beside him, but he suddenly swayed. He caught himself with a hand on the back of a chair.
Lord Kenmare took hold of the physician's arm, immediately perceiving that the man was done in. “You are in no shape for it. Why, you are dead on your feet. I will have supper brought to you and you will rest here before you return to that charnal work of yours."
The physician attempted to shake himself free, protesting, “But I must go. There are lives depending upon me."
"Yes, and how much good do you think you will be, unable even to walk across the room without rolling like a drunken sailor?” Lord Kenmare asked, deliberately brutal. He ignored the blaze of anger in the physician's eyes as he maneuvered the man to a settee, at the same time calling for a servant. When a footman appeared, he gave rapid orders for sandwiches and cider to be brought in.
"This is unnecessary, my lord,” the physician said stiffly. Despite himself, he accepted the small amount of brandy that the earl poured for him. It burned his throat and he coughed, but the warming of his insides from the liquor was very pleasant.
"Indeed, but then, we aristocrats are known to be a whimsical and stubborn lot, and it is far better to humor us, you know,” Lord Kenmare said. The supper was brought in and placed before the physician, who reluctantly picked up one of the beef sandwiches. Even as he bit into it, he eyed his arbitrary host with hostility and resentment.
Lord Kenmare remained in the sitting room to see that the physician did not leave before he had eaten, and when the physician was finished, he told the footman who came to remove the tray that he wished extra sandwiches made up and wrapped for the physician to take away with him. “I shall not be present to be certain that you consume your share, but at least I shall have the gratification of knowing that your colleagues will not starve,” he said.
The physician had leaned back against the settee. He chuckled tiredly at the earl's quip. “Indeed, my lord, I will be certain that your gracious hospitality will be spread as far as it will stretch.'’ He was overtaken by a wide yawn, and he apologized. “I have been working on the wounded since the first were brought in, and the trickle that became a stream is now a flood. At six o'clock each morning I have taken the knife in my hand and continued incessantly at work till seven in the evening. Of course, this evening you appeared to drag me off before I was quite done.” The last was said with the faintest note of disgruntlement, but apparently was not enough to rouse the earl's ire. The physician gave the veriest flicker of a smile. “I suppose that I must thank you for that small inconvenience, my lord,” he said, raising his glass slightly in acknowledgment.