Three Heroes (19 page)

“Watch the parade, Horatia,” Clarissa commanded “It’s nearly over.”

Horatia pulled a face, but obeyed.

After a few moments Clarissa risked a glance at the rake. He was looking ahead, not at her.

Victory! He knew his evil plans were thwarted.

She smiled to herself at sounding like a character in an overly dramatic play, but she was feeling victorious. See, it wasn’t so very difficult to deal with importunate men.

One skirmish won was enough for the day, however. Thank heavens this would soon be over and she could herd her flock back to the school.

As soon as the last marchers passed and the crowd began to break up, she pulled the four younger girls into a bunch around her, making sure that Horatia stayed close too. The rake moved on without a backward look.

Folly to feel disappointment at that.

“Come along,” she said briskly. “It’s all over now.”

Anxious to be done with this, she nudged her group into the thinning crowd. It wasn’t as easy going as she’d expected. The crowd had not truly thinned out. Instead, it swirled chaotically.

When they’d hurried here everyone had been streaming in one direction, but now people went all ways at once. It was market day and many were heading there, but others wanted to get to the taverns, to homes, or to the fairground that had been set up on the outskirts of town.

The mob pushed and pulled, like a monster with a hundred hands snagging at one child or another.

Ricarda began to cry again. She let go of Lucilla and clutched Clarissa’s skirts. Clarissa reached out to keep Jane and Georgina close.

Then a mighty voice rang out. The town crier. “Oyez! Oyez! Mr. Huxtable, landlord of the Duke of Wellington, is rolling out three casks of free ale so all can toast our noble heroes!”

Oh, no! As the crowd’s mood changed, Clarissa was already gathering her flock close. Lucilla, her butterfly attention caught by something, swirled off between an enormous man and two elbowing lads.

Clarissa just man-aged to seize the back of the girl’s cloak and haul he close—at some risk to the poor child’s neck!

She shed her own cloak, letting it fall to be trampled “Hold tight to my skirt!” she commanded. “Jane, Georgina, do the same. Horatia, help me keep everyone together. We’ll stay still for a moment to let the crowd pass.”

She put every scrap of calm and confidence that she could muster into her words, and the girls did press close but staying still was easier said than done. Most of the crowd seemed hell-bent on the free ale, and the rest were struggling to get free.

Rocked and buffeted, she was seized by blank panic.

Cries and screams all around flung her back to other screams, and blood.

To the thunder of a pistol.

Shattering glass.

Blood, so much blood…

And a woman quoting Lady Macbeth. “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?‘

Darkness crept in at the edge of her vision.

No. Stay in the present. The girls need you. You will not fall apart again in a crisis!

She pinched her left hand hard to get her wits back then clutched terrified Ricarda close. She began to ease her little group sideways to a nearby brick wall when perhaps the mob would flow past them.

“Stay close!” she yelled. “Hold on!” Her voice seemed swallowed by the cacophony around, but the girls were all with her, clinging, dragging on her arms and gown.

The press of squirming, elbowing bodies had he sweating with heat and terror, but she would not weaken Lose their footing here and they could be trampled. The stench turned her stomach. Her foot slid on something squishy, almost making her fall. She prayed it was a: innocent as a piece of dropped fruit.

One, two, three, four, five.

Horatia—good girl—had wrapped an arm around her waist so they were locked into a huddled unit.

Then her bonnet was knocked forward over her right eye, so she couldn’t see from that side at all. She didn’t dare raise her hand to straighten it for fear of losing one of the children. The crush was so tight, she

’d never get her arm down again.

All the younger girls were wailing now, and she wanted to wail herself. But she was the protector here. “

It’s all right,” she said meaninglessly. “Hold tight. It will be all right.”

When someone crushed into them from behind, she didn’t hesitate to jab back with her elbow.

There was an “Ooof!”; then a strong arm came around them and a voice said, “Hold back, hold back, make way, make way there.” He didn’t shout—in the tumult there would be no point—but somehow his commanding tone seemed to cut through and create a moment’s pause so they could slide sideways.

The crowd sealed tight behind them, but his voice opened the way until they landed entangled against the wall.

There was no indent here, however, no doorway to press back into. No barrier except a simple iron lamppost. Had they fallen out of the pot into the fire? They could be crushed. Terrified screams said that might be happening elsewhere in the maddened crowd.

But the man grasped the lamppost and made himself a barrier that the crowd must flow around, creating a tiny pocket of sanity.

Clarissa held her crying charges closer, trembling. “It’s all right, dears,” she said again. “Don’t be afraid.

This kind man is making sure we don’t get hurt.”

It was, of course, the wicked rake, to whom she’d been so cold. Horatia had better instincts. He was a true hero. He had rescued them and was now their protector.

Clarissa could see only the man’s back, for he was facing the throng. She could see the faces of the passing crowd, however—young, old, angry, fearful, excited, greedy, impatient. She watched them see him, see him as a barrier to the direction they wanted to take, then shift away as if he wore spikes.

She wondered what expression he was using to warn them off, but she could only be grateful. Now that she had a measure of safety her knees felt like limp lettuce. If not for the girls she might have sagged to the ground and given in to tears herself.

But she’d done it! She’d been terrified, the memories had tried to overwhelm her, but she hadn’t collapsed. Instead, she’d surely helped save them all. Though still shaking and close to tears, she felt as if great weights had fallen away, leaving her light enough to fly.

She could face fear and survive.

A woman was suddenly pushed beside them. A desperate young countrywoman in coarse, disheveled clothes with a screaming baby in her arms. She did collapse, her legs giving way so that she sank down, back against the wall. Even Ricarda stopped wailing to stare at her.

Clarissa couldn’t help thinking about fleas, but the mother needed help as much as she and the girls did.

As the woman lowered her dirty shift and put the frantic baby to her big breast, Clarissa looked away, looked again at their savior and guardian.

She didn’t generally allow herself to study men, but since his back was to her, she could indulge.

He was tall—her head barely came up to his shoulders. His olive coat lay smooth across broad shoulders and down his back, suggesting a lean, strong body. He stood with strong legs braced apart.

She ripped her gaze away. Studying a man like that was not only immodest, it was dangerous. Looks said nothing about a man’s true qualities, but they could weaken a woman’s mind.

Yet she couldn’t resist sneaking another look. He’d lost his hat in the riot, revealing disordered honey-brown hair.

She remembered earlier assessing him as a London beau. She’d sensed that danger, but never imagined him the stuff of which effective heroes are made. Another lesson about judging by appearances.

She suddenly realized that the nature of the crowd had shifted like a change in the air, danger fading, shock lingering. Pressure eased as people began to mill around, many pale and dazed while others sharpened to bring order and assistance. Through wails, and the cries of parents trying to locate their children, she heard the beat of a drum, doubtless calling the soldiers to riot control.

She quickly counted, even though she knew they were all safe. One, two, three, four, five. She found a smile for Horatia, whose bonnet was down her back, revealing all her lovely curls, but who clearly was not thinking of that at all. “Thank you. You were magnificent.”

The girl smiled back, proud but a bit wobbly.

Horatia, too, had probably learned in a test of fire that she was braver than she’d thought.

“Quite an adventure, girls,” Clarissa said in as light a tone as she could manage. “Let go of me now and help one another to straighten bonnets and bodices.”

They did so, and with Horatia’s encouragement, even began to giggle a bit as they repaired one another’s appearance. Clarissa made sure her own gown was straight, wondering what had happened to her cloak.

She took off her crooked bonnet, using it to fan herself for a moment before putting it back on.

The man turned.

She was caught hatless and staring, because there was nothing grim and indomitable about him. Instead, he was all rake again, with a wicked glint in those blue eyes and a slight smile on his well-shaped lips.

And a wavery, warm feeling skimmed over her.

None of that! No amount of willpower, however, could halt her blush, so she turned away as she settled her bonnet back firmly on her head.

No amount of willpower could stop her from wishing she looked her inadequate best. She tried to at least tuck her hair away neatly, knowing it was a forlorn gesture. It was unruly by nature, and it had just been given an excellent opportunity to riot.

She firmly tied the ribbons, then looked at him. “I don’t know how to thank you, sir. We might have been in terrible trouble without your assistance.”

“I was pleased to be able to help.”

She was braced to resist flirtation, but he hunkered down in front of the countrywoman. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Well, of course.

Men didn’t flirt with her.

All the same, a foolish part of her envied the mother, who was blooming under his attention. “Oh, yes, sir,

” she said in a country accent. “So kind, sir! I thought for sure I was to be crushed to death, or have poor Joanie here torn from my arms.”

But then her eyes widened and she paled as she tried to push herself up one-handed.

He helped her, not seeming conscious of her half-exposed breast or the attached suckling infant.

“My littl’uns!” she gasped, her hand going up to push straggling brown hair off her face. “They’re out there somewhere. I must go—”

“No, no,” he said calmly. “Tell me what they look like and I’ll find them for you. What of your man?”

“He’s back tending the cows for Squire Bewsley, sir. There be three of ‘em, sir. Three boys, and they do stay together if they can. Four, seven, and ten. All brown hair.”

Clarissa wondered how anyone could find three urchins on that description, but the man didn’t seem daunted.

“Names?” he asked, as Clarissa looked out at the street, hoping three young brown-haired lads were in sight.

“Matt, Mark, and Lukey,” the woman said, and even produced a smile when she added, “Little Joanie was going to be John.”

The man grinned. “Stay here, and I’ll return soon to report. Hopefully with your little evangelists in tow.”

His grin, Clarissa discovered, could shatter a lady’s common sense. How fortunate that Horatia wasn’t looking. She’d be in a swoon.

He turned to leave, but suddenly Clarissa couldn’t bear for this strange encounter to end like that. “Sir, could I know the name of our rescuer?”

He turned back and bowed. “Major Hawkinville, ma’am.” He raised his hand to his hat, then said, “The deuce. I wonder where it is.”

“Wherever, I fear it will be sadly flattened.”

Then she found herself sharing a smile that left her feeling positively light-headed.

“Better a hat than people,” he said, those richly blue eyes on hers, making her heart race.

How rash she had been to come to names with a man she knew nothing about. Especially with one who seemed able to spin her out of common sense with a look.

It was done now, however, so she curtsied and gave him her name in return. Suddenly at a loss to describe her status, she added, “Of Miss Mallory’s School here.”

He turned to the wide-eyed girls. “As are you all, I suppose. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” the girls chorused adoringly.

Oh, no. Horatia was gazing at him as if he were a god, and now the man could probably claim to have been introduced. Clarissa realized that she’d rashly created a very improper situation, and she winced at what Miss Mallory would think of this whole affair.

“Were you at Waterloo, Major Hawkinville?” Horatia asked breathlessly.

“Yes, I was.”

“In the cavalry?” asked Jane.

“No.”

Before anyone else could ask a question, however, he bowed farewell. “But now, ladies, I must be off to other battles.”

And thus he was gone, striding away through the dazed stragglers, looking, to Clarissa’s dazzled eyes, like a hero among lesser men. Finding three young strangers in the chaos seemed impossible, but if anyone could do it, Major Hawkinville could.

Definitely a hero, but judging by his swift departure, one who sought no glory in war.

Not cavalry, so infantry. He had shown great steadiness in the face of the crowd. She could imagine him leading his men to assault the walls of an impenetrable fortress, or keeping them steady in the face of a French cavalry charge.

“Wasn’t he handsome, Clarissa?” Jane sighed. “And one of our noble soldiers!”

“A warrior angel,” Georgina said. “I shall draw a picture of him as Saint George when we get back.”

Clarissa didn’t point out that Saint George was not one of the angels. This wasn’t the right time for a lesson, and she wasn’t a teacher, thank heavens.

“A major,” sighed Horatia. “Mentioned in dispatches a dozen times. He must have met the Duke of Wellington.”

“Doubtless.” But Clarissa was shocked that her thoughts had been so like those of the younger girls. “

Come,” she said crisply. “We must return to school. If news of this crush has reached them, they’ll be worried.”