Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Twelve

A Reunion at a Funeral

Meanwhile, near Havenhurst, located in Kent

S tiff from having been stuffed into a mail coach since six o’clock that morning, Charles struggled to step down from the equipage with the help of both his crutches. A valise was clutched in one hand, making his exit even more difficult.

A sympathetic coachman hurried up to assist. “Apologies for the crowded conditions, Captain,” he said as he took the valise. “We’ve been taking on all manner of military men since the end of the war. Hate ta’ turn any of them away.”

“Understood,” Charles said as he surveyed the coaching inn’s yard. “Might you know how I could get to Havenhurst?” he asked. “Colonel Sinclair’s funeral is scheduled for today.”

The coachman seemed to think about it. “Haven’t heard of that one,” he said. “But there’s a coach for hire right yonder,” he added as he waved to a black traveling coach that had seen better days. “Cooper won’t cheat you, sir. Charges by the hour rather than the mile.”

Charles followed the coachman’s line of sight and nodded when he spotted the coach parked at the edge of the yard. “I appreciate it.”

He took his valise and hobbled over to the hackney. Cooper, a man of some years and sporting a shock of gray hair to prove it, claimed to know where Havenhurst was located. “Barely three miles from here, Captain,” Cooper said, his expression turning to confusion when he noticed Charles’s valise. “You must be here for the funeral. Is that all of your luggage, sir?”

“I am, and it is,” Charles replied, glad to learn someone else knew there was to be a funeral in the area. “I don’t plan to stay long.” Truth be told, he didn’t know where he’d be spending the night if it wasn’t at Havenhurst.

“I can have you there within a half-hour,” Cooper promised, tossing the valise into the coach. “The estate ain’t large, but they should have a room for you should you need one. The widow and daughter just passed through here late yesterday afternoon, and the soldier with the coffin arrived the day ’afore.”

“Oh, dear. I hope I’m not late,” Charles murmured as he moved to step into the coach.

“I’ll get you there, sir. I know exactly where the family burial grounds are at the edge of the estate.”

Charles was barely settled into the squabs when the coach jerked into motion. Another moment and the two horses were heading down a country lane at near breakneck speeds.

True to his word, Cooper had the hackney pulling into the Havenhurst drive well before thirty minutes had passed. After a turn and a trip down a two-wheeled lane, the coach came to a stop near a huge live oak tree.

Beneath the tree stood a number of uniformed men, although none of them appeared to have their heads bowed. A series of limestone headstones were lined up on both sides of the tree. “Looks like I’m just in time,” Charles said as he adjusted his scarlet coat and then used a single crutch to depart the hackney. He opted to use his cane instead of the crutch for what came next. “Can you wait? I’ll pay for your time.”

“Course, sir. I’ll stay parked here until the service is over.”

Charles hobbled over to join the men, heartened to see at least one he knew from his time on the Continent. The chaplain, Ambrose Elgin, had been a frequent visitor to the field hospital Charles had been forced to stay in for so long. He held a prayer book in one hand and the silver knob of a cane in the other.

“Audley? Is that you?” Ambrose asked as Charles approached. “Never thought I’d see you again,” he added as Charles shook his hand.

“Likewise,” Charles replied with a quirked lip as his gaze swept the collection of officers who had come to pay their respects. “I apologize for my tardiness. I only learned of this yesterday from my solicitor.” He nodded in the direction of Mark O’Riley, a corporal who had been Colonel Sinclair’s batman during the war.

“Oh, you’re not late,” Captain Cruikshank said from where he leaned against the trunk of the oak tree, his arms crossed over his chest. “But the widow and his daughter are due any moment.”

“Women? At a funeral?” one of the other officers asked in surprise.

“Miss Sinclair insisted,” Ambrose replied. “As the colonel’s only child, she’s entitled.”

As if on cue, two women could be seen making their way arm in arm toward the graveyard, a uniformed officer walking next to one of them. One lady was dressed entirely in black, her gown and the net covering her face, reminding Charles of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, except this woman was far thinner. The other wore a dark navy carriage gown, a black armband around the top of her sleeve, the only evidence of her mourning. Her face wasn’t completely covered by her hat’s netting, so it was easy for Charles to recognize the colonel’s wife. He’d met her at a soirée in London prior to his regiment’s departure for the Continent. She had her other arm on the sleeve of one Major Culkins.

“Mrs. Sinclair, Miss Sinclair, please accept my sincerest condolences,” Charles said as he bowed and then reached for the widow’s gloved hand. “Captain Charles Audley, at your service, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the matron replied with a slight curtsy.

He turned to take the daughter’s hand as others stepped up to pay their respects.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Captain,” the daughter murmured. “And walking with only a cane? Why, that’s marvelous.”

Charles blinked when he recognized the soft voice. “Angel?” he whispered in awe.

Before Amy could respond, Ambrose had her gloved hand in his, leading her to a spot near where the hole had been dug for her father’s coffin. She briefly glanced back at Charles, as if in apology for having been removed from his company.

Reeling in disbelief, Charles watched her retreating back as the rest of his body responded in a most inappropriate manner. He struggled to tamp down his sudden arousal. Slow down his racing heart. Catch his breath and hold it a moment.

His angel was Colonel Sinclair’s daughter?

“I am going to hell,” he whispered under his breath.

“What’s that, Captain?” O’Riley asked, the colonel’s valet turning to regard him with a questioning glance.

“Oh, nothing, Corporal,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Tell me, did Miss Sinclair arrive with the colonel when he reported for duty on the Continent?”

O’Riley’s gaze darted to the daughter before he returned his attention to Charles. “She did, Captain. An independent lady, that one is. Colonel Sinclair didn’t like that she wished to be a nurse, but he knew he couldn’t talk her out of it. Besides, he was very proud of her. More than he would have been of a son, I think.”

The comment implied the colonel didn’t have a son, which surprised Charles.

“Did she stay with the colonel in town?” Charles asked. He knew that some officers had quarters in the villages near what would later become the battlefields.

“Sometimes. When she wasn’t needed at the field hospital. Poor thing would come in barely able to walk some mornings.”

“ Mornings ?” Charles repeated in shock. He was sure he remembered her checking on him during the daytime when the tent was brighter with the midday sun.

“She worked all the time,” Ambrose claimed. “But she had an escort to see her back to the apartment so she could change clothes and such. I saw to it her laundry was done by a local woman.” He shivered. “Some of her gowns were so bloodied, they couldn’t be salvaged,” he added with a wince.

Charles secretly hoped his injured leg hadn’t contributed to the ruination of Miss Sinclair’s gowns. Since he’d been mostly unconscious when he was carried into the field hospital on a stretcher, he didn’t know what the condition of his leg had been.

“I suppose the colonel’s uniforms could be like that, too,” Charles murmured, recalling what it was like in the field hospital. He remembered when Colonel Sinclair would visit his wounded troops, stopping at each cot to say a few encouraging words to each and every soldier.

Now Charles wondered if the colonel was merely there to check on his daughter.

His eyes widened when he realized something about the corporal. “Pray tell, what will you do for your living now that you’re not working for Colonel Sinclair?”

O’Riley cleared his throat, his attention on the chaplain and Miss Sinclair. “I haven’t sorted it yet, sir. Been the colonel’s valet since he was a captain,” he replied. “Miss Sinclair saw to my final pay, although I had the distinct impression her mother wasn’t happy about it,” he added with a grimace. “I’ve some blunt to get me by, probably enough for a few months.”

Charles remembered the solicitor’s comment about his townhouse. About some funds that were included in his great aunt’s bequest to pay the staff salaries. “Would you consider a position as a valet in my house? I learned only yesterday that I now own one in Mayfair.”

The valet’s eyes widened. “I’d be working for you?”

“Yes. I’ve not really required my own valet in the past,” Charles explained. “Just shared one with my brother. But this damn leg makes it hard to get around. Hard to dress myself,” he added.

“I’d be honored, sir,” O’Riley replied. “Mayfair?” he repeated, giving Charles a look of doubt.

“Indeed. My brother is the Earl of Leicester,” Charles stated in a quiet voice, deciding his ties to an aristocrat might help convince O’Riley to accept the offer. He was relieved to see the valet’s look of surprise. About to offer some more information, he couldn’t when the chaplain waved in their direction. “Come over closer to the tree. It’s time we start this service,” he said.

Charles and O’Riley joined the rest of the mourners at the gravesite, Charles angling for a spot near Miss Sinclair. Shoulder to shoulder, they listened in solemnity as Ambrose read from his prayer book. Only Miss Sinclair’s occasional sniffles gave away that she was weeping behind the netting covering most of her face. That and the sodden hanky she occasionally raised to dab her cheeks.

Charles pulled his handkerchief from his uniform pocket and offered it to her, heartened when she took it with a single, “Thank you, sir,” and without protest.

Meanwhile, her mother, standing on her other side, stood stoically staring at the trunk of the oak tree. She didn’t even hold a hanky, which had Charles wondering if she had spilled all her tears upon learning of her husband’s death or if she would do so after everyone departed. Beyond her stood Major Culkins.

When the chaplain finished, O’Riley and three others moved into place to help lower the coffin into the ground with the help of burlap slings that had been threaded under the coffin. Each one of the men took turns dumping a shovel full of dirt onto the coffin as Mrs. Sinclair tossed in a single rose.

“May I escort you back to your house?” Charles asked of Miss Sinclair.

“Yes, thank you, Captain.” To the others in attendance, she called out, “I had Cook make a late luncheon. A cold collation. It’s not much, but please, do join us at the house if you’re able.”

Charles nodded. “I’d like that. Perhaps someone can properly introduce us,” he added. “Or I shall be calling you ‘Angel’ for the rest of my life.”

For the first time that afternoon, Amy Sinclair grinned. Despite the netting covering her face, it was evident she was blushing. “I will not mind, and it is not much different than my given name.”

“Amy,” her mother called out. The older woman was already headed toward the manor on the arm of the major. “Don’t dawdle. I still intend for us to be back in London tonight.”

“Yes, Mother,” Amy replied with a sigh of disappointment.

Charles heard the frustration in her response. “What’s in London?” he asked as he offered his arm.

“We have a house in Westminster,” she replied. “Havenhurst is our country home, and Mother has never liked the country.”

“What about you? Do you prefer the city over the country?”

Amy glanced back toward the gravesite. “Depends on the time of the year, I think. I prefer the summers here. Everything is so green. But in the winter, it’s rather dreary. And you?” she asked. “Do you have a preference?”

Charles wanted to say it would depend on where she was. His awareness of her and how she made him feel wasn’t like anything he had ever experienced before. He was about to respond, but his attention went to a man who was running in their direction.

“Sir, would you like me to move the coach to the house and wait there?”

Startled by the coachman’s query, Charles paused. He had completely forgotten about Cooper. “I would appreciate that, yes.”

Amy watched the driver hurry off. “I take it he’s not your usual coachman?”

Charles guffawed. “He is not. My coachman is probably in Cambridge at the moment. He drove my brother there,” he replied. “I didn’t learn of this service until yesterday when I was meeting with my solicitor,” he explained. “I was left with the choice of using a phaeton, which I am quite sure would have been impractical given the roads, or riding the mail coach. I hired Cooper back at the coaching inn a few miles from here.”

“Oh, dear,” Amy replied. “How will you get back to London?”

“Same way I came,” he replied with a shrug. Judging by how few walked with them toward the house—only Ambrose, the major, the corporal, and one other mourner—he realized the others had already departed.

Apparently, Amy noticed as well. “It does feel as if this is the end, doesn’t it?”

“The end?” Charles repeated.

“The end of the war. The funerals are the last of it, are they not? Then everyone goes home to do whatever they were doing before they were called away to fight.”

Charles considered her comment. “You have the right of it,” he replied. “What will that be for you? Will you still be a nurse but in a real hospital?”

“Oh, how I wish,” she replied with a sigh.

“You could be a nurse,” he countered.

Amy scoffed. “Not if my mother has anything to say about it,” she said. “I’m to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

Stopping in his tracks, which forced Amy to spin around and nearly collide with the front of him, Charles stared at her in shock. “Highest bidder?”

Her gaze dropped to settle on his brass buttons. “The Marriage Mart,” she said in a quiet voice. “Mother has hired a matchmaker. She wants me wed before I reach my majority. I think she knows I would rather take my inheritance and work as a nurse than be married to some half-wit, which makes it that much more frustrating.”

“You’ve made it clear to her you wish to be a nurse?” Charles asked carefully.

“I have. My wishes fall on deaf ears, though.”

He furrowed a brow. “You would make an excellent nurse. You made an excellent nurse,” he quickly corrected. “Have you a hospital in mind in which to work?”

Amy regarded him with a wan grin. “St. Bartholomew’s. I’d like to work in surgery, assisting physicians in their operations.” She dipped her head. “I know it sounds gruesome, but—”

“You were already doing it at the field hospital,” he said, remembering the few times his line of sight afforded him a view of emergency surgeries that sometimes had to be performed when a newly wounded soldier was brought into the tent. “Under circumstances that were by no means ideal. In a real hospital, you would have more resources. Better lighting and instruments,” he went on. “Patients who would be more likely to live.”

Grinning at his enthusiasm, Amy resumed the walk to the house, matching his pace. “You have the right of it, of course.”