Chapter 20
Chapter 20
On the front lines in France, the Royal Horse Artillery had no time to celebrate Christmas. Captain Nicholas Hatton’s men were in pursuit of Soult’s army, while other divisions had been given the safer task of blockading Bayonne.
Slowly but surely, they took one hill after another, forcing the enemy to retreat and reform its line of defense farther back. They drove Soult’s army from Gave de Pau to Orthez, then they captured that position also. The terrain had treacherous mountain passes and raging rivers, and more than one of Nick’s men drowned. He shepherded them as best he could, but he now had command of an entire battalion of a thousand soldiers and could no longer give them all his personal attention.
With each victory, Nick grew more confident that the end was in sight. At night he moved among the campfires, encouraging his men and restoring their flagging morale. “In every village we pass through, I see more and more deserters from the enemy army. I can spot them a mile off with their cropped heads. Half of them are barefoot, and an army without boots is staring defeat in the face!”
Nick silenced rumors that were negative and repeated those that fostered hope. “Our scouts estimate there are more than five thousand deserters scattered over the countryside. Marshal Soult is mounting his last possible defensive. He knows the end is close!”
Captain Hatton’s men began to believe him when they captured St. Sever. Soult’s troops retreated so quickly they had no time to destroy their magazines. More and more, the soldiers’ talk turned to victory and what they would do when the war was over and Napoleon defeated. Most wanted to leave the army and return to England. Some, to Nick’s amazement, wanted to become career soldiers. There was another war raging in the United States and the American continent held a fascination for many. Nicholas Hatton wanted nothing more than to return home. When the war was over, he would resign his commission and leave the army. First, however, Nick knew he must remain alive long enough to seize victory.
Early in the new year, Alex went round to Coutts Bank with money. Dottie was still in the country with Neville Staines, so Alex decided she would take over their financial difficulties. She learned that her grandmother had borrowed five thousand pounds and was already in arrears for three hundred pounds interest. She handed over the money she had made from Champagne Charlie’s and realized, with a sinking heart, just how long she would have to keep on performing if she were to pay off the actual loan and not just the interest. Alex knew she had no option; Dottie had assigned the deed to Longford Manor as collateral.
When she arrived home, she was surprised to learn that Kit Hatton had called and left a note for her. When she read it she was even more surprised that he was inviting her for an evening at the theater tonight. He apologized for the short notice and sounded eager for her company. She scribbled her acceptance and had a footman take it round to Curzon Street.
They saw a Sheridan play, and Alex found that she enjoyed herself immensely. Then Kit took her for a late supper.
“I went home to Hatton Hall for Christmas, but it was so gloomy, rattling round the place alone, I couldn’t wait to get back.”
Alex was flattered that he gave her his undivided attention, but at the same time she suspected it was because he had seen her with Hart Cavendish and it had aroused, not jealousy exactly, but rivalry perhaps. Kit assumed Hart was competing with him for her hand. She hid her amusement and did not disabuse him of his assumption. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen much of Rupert lately?”
“Well, over Christmas he was busy with his new family, but truthfully, marriage hasn’t cramped his style at all. Being a husband hasn’t curtailed our outings together; I’m starting to view marriage in a different light.”
Alex searched his face for any sign of mockery, but his gray eyes held only sincerity. Her gaze lingered on his dark, heavy brows and slanting cheekbones, then her glance lowered to his square chin, with its deep cleft. He really is one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen in my life. If only I were starting to view marriage in a different light.
A few hours later at home in her bedchamber when her dream began, the face with the dark, heavy brows and slanting cheekbones played a prominent role. He was so close Alex could feel the heat of his body and see the blue shadow on his square chin. She reached out a finger and dipped it into the deep cleft with a delicious shiver. But the man who dominated her dream was not Kit Hatton, it was his twin, Nicholas.
In St. Sever, Nick Hatton had little time to sleep, let alone dream. Wellington had given his troops orders to press on relentlessly and assured them that their northern allies were poised to take Paris.
Captain Hatton discussed strategy for taking their next stronghold with his lieutenants. Mont de Marsan was extremely important because it served as the enemy’s great central depot. Snow fell heavily all day and helped to conceal their advance. By late afternoon, the battalion had accomplished its goal and captured Mont de Marsan. But before Nick had time to praise his men for their victory, there was a massive explosion as powder magazines blew up, filling the air with acrid, black smoke and the sky with orange flames. The number of casualties was great; the dead were dismembered, and the living received horrendous wounds.
Hatton ordered a field hospital be set up, and himself picked up and carried in casualties, all the time raging and cursing at the Gods of War. Seeing his men burned black sickened his soul. Within days, they had orders from Wellington himself to move on. The great man, who was suffering from a heavy cold, rode Copenhagen through the March snowstorm to bring General Hill word of Marshal Soult’s position on the River Aire. They stormed the enemy’s position en masse and forced them to fall back wearily toward Toulouse.
Wellington was relentless. In less than a fortnight he had gathered all his generals and their troops and ordered them to attack Toulouse. Soult decided to stay and fight, making a last vicious stand. The ensuing bloody battle left the wounded and dead from both sides lying everywhere. Captain Nicholas Hatton, buoyed by the courage of his men, felt immense satisfaction when he saw them fight, using the defensive tactics he had taught them. Late in the day it became obvious to British and French alike that Soult’s resistance was useless. The defeated army began to flee.
Nick turned quickly in the saddle to see a dragoon riding him down, intent on decapitating him with a flailing saber. Nick fired his pistol point-blank, which saved his life, but the Frenchman and his mount barreled into him, knocking him from the saddle. Nick was momentarily stunned by the fall; as he got to his feet he heard Slate screaming. He stared in horror as his gray writhed on the ground, his guts protruding through a gaping gash in his underbelly. In a flash, Nick cocked his second pistol and put a bullet in Slate’s brain.
The battlefield had no shortage of riderless horses, but before he grabbed the trailing reins of one, Nick laid a loving hand on Slate’s still-warm flank, and the lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He looked about him and realized that the fighting was done, the battle won. As he picked his way through the carnage, Nick took little joy in the victory. Their casualties were heavy, and the enemy had fled, leaving behind hundreds of wounded men.
It was midnight before he had checked on the men in his battalion. As he lay in the darkness, physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, blessed sleep eluded him. Nick railed against a God thirsty for blood and vengeance. When I came here, everything in the world had been snatched away, except Slate. You weren’t satisfied until you took that one last thing from me! He felt raw, sapped, desolate, a breath away from madness. But as he lay there in the dark, a strange transformation began to take place. Slowly, gradually, peacefully, a calm descended and his sanity returned. Nick knew that, except for Slate, he had no regrets. The adversity of war had taught him things he could not have learned anywhere else. Though he was more cynical, his belief in himself and his abilities was now unshakable, and his self-worth had doubled. He closed his eyes and dreamed of home and Alexandra.
“The extra five shillings a week you’ve given me since Christmas has made a world of difference, mistress.” Sara bobbed a curtsy.
“Call me Alex, and please don’t genuflect to me, Sara. I am no saint.” Alex had promised her a raise when she thought her grandmother was a wealthy dowager, so she had had no option but to give Sara a little of the money she earned at Charlie’s.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. I’m able to buy my mother a few luxuries she’s never had before.”
“How is your mother, Sara?”
“She was well the last time I went round. The winter’s not been kind to Maggie, though. She’s been very poorly. Spring is in the air today, so let’s hope she starts to improve.”
“You are right, spring is in the air. Why don’t we take a walk and go to visit them, Sara?”
“Oh, could we? I’ll take her some tea; it’s so expensive.”
Alex reflected on the high price of the imported luxury and gave thanks that dear Neville Staines footed the food bills at Berkeley Square. She sent up a quick prayer for Neville’s full recovery. Dottie had returned from nursing him a fortnight ago, and reported that he was vastly improved, but yesterday she had gone back for a few days, just to make sure.
Outside, the pale sunshine reflected in the windows of the houses they passed. When they neared Regent Street, they saw that the lovely weather had brought all the vendors out to peddle their wares. Old women selling spring flowers tempted Alex to part with her money, but she resisted, knowing she must buy Sara’s mother something more useful. They went into a shop, where Sara bought two ounces of tea and Alex selected a pot of honey. Then impulsively she picked up a second pot for Maggie Field.
As they walked toward the squalid streets, Sara warned, “Better hide these things or they’ll be snatched from our hands by the first raggedy little bugger who runs past us.” She slipped the tea into her pocket, and Alex followed suit. The houses in the slum seemed more dilapidated than Alex remembered, and the warm day brought an unbelievable stench to the entire area.
Inside, Alex explained to Sara’s mother that when she had visited last time, she had been dressed in her brother’s clothes. They all enjoyed a good laugh, and when the older woman saw the tea and honey they had brought her, she was overwhelmed. Alex moved apart to give them some privacy and pretended not to notice when Sara slipped some shillings into her mother’s hand. They stayed for half an hour, then said their good-byes and knocked on the door across the hall.
“I heard her say come in,” Sara said. She lifted the latch, and the two young women stepped across the threshold. “It’s Sara. Are you feeling any better?”
Maggie was reclining on a narrow horsehair sofa, and she struggled to sit up. When she saw that Sara had someone with her, the smile of welcome faded, and her sunken eyes went wide with horror. “No . . . no . . . get her away,” she gasped.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Field. I came before with Sara. I was dressed in my brother’s clothes.” Alex touched her hair self-consciously as Maggie stared at its color as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “I brought you some honey.”
“Alexandra . . . get away from me,” she gasped.
“She’s afraid you’ll catch her consumption,” Sara explained.
“She knows my name!” Alex was surprised. “Maggie, do you know me, or perhaps my grandmother?”
“No!” The denial was too swift. Too painful.
Maggie Field, you do know me. Margaret Field . . . Margaret . . .Alex’s hand covered her mouth, then it slipped down over her heart.
“Your name is Sheffield . . . Margaret Sheffield, isn’t it?”
The woman fell back on the couch. “Go away . . . don’t look at me!”
Alex stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“We’d better go,” Sara said.
Alex nodded and followed her outside.
“Your face is as white as a sheet. Do you know Maggie?”
“I knew her once.” Alex pressed her lips together. As her feet moved swiftly, carrying her away from the decaying streets, she could not bring herself to discuss the matter with Sara. She needed to sort out her tangled emotions. Her thoughts were in disarray, her feelings were in chaos, and her tranquility was completely shattered.
As Alex distanced herself from the slums and walked through Soho toward Mayfair, her thoughts became clearer. When they got to Berkeley Square, she turned to Sara. “I’m not coming in; I have somewhere I must go.”?
Sara hesitated. “Would you like me to come with you?”
“No”—Alex shook her head—“but thank you.” She carried on walking to Curzon Street, then turned the corner into Clarges. She was admitted into the town house by the usual servant. “Is my brother at home?”
“I am, Alex, but not for long.” Rupert, dressed in his driving coat, came down the stairs into the entrance hall.
“You are going driving; that fits into my plans perfectly.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t fit into my plans. I’m off to the spring meet of the Four-In-Hand Club.”
“They’ll have to manage without you,” Alex said decisively. “I need you to drive me somewhere, Rupert.”
“Do you indeed, Miss Bossy-boots? Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you . . . it’s something I have to show you.”
Olivia emerged from the drawing room. “Hello, Alexandra.” She looked from one to the other. “If you’re taking your sister driving, Rupert, I shall come too. A carriage ride is the very thing to start the baby coming.”
Alex looked aghast at Olivia’s expanded belly. “No, you cannot possibly go racketing about town in an open carriage in your condition. Come, Rupert!”
As he followed his sister through the front door, he said through his teeth, “You’re getting more like Dottie every day.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
A groom, standing with the carriage and matched pair, handed the leader’s reins to Rupert, and Alex climbed up without assistance.
As her brother released the brake, she directed, “St. Giles.”
“St. Giles?” Rupert shouted with disbelief. “I’m not driving my cattle into St. Giles! Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Then get out and I shall drive them myself.”
Rupert stared at her, and she gave him a level look back. “I wouldn’t ask you, Rupert, unless it were absolutely imperative.”
He saw the look in her eyes that told him he had no choice. “I can see that you are serious.”
“Never more so in my life.”
He took a corner carefully, and looked over at his sister. “I read your article in the Political Register about climbing boys.” He glanced at the road, then back to her. “It’s most admirable to champion a worthy cause, Alex, so long as you don’t fall into the habit of doing it on a regular basis.”
Alex held her tongue, not without difficulty.
Rupert turned the horses onto Oxford Street. “Look here, if this is one of your misguided missions to save some downtrodden wretch, I think you should know that charity begins at home.”
“Meaning?”
“I think it’s time you knew that Dottie is not the wealthy dowager you think her. You can’t go wasting her money on charity cases; she doesn’t have any.”
“I am well aware of our financial difficulties. Each of us must deal with it as we think best.”
“Are you condemning me because I married for money?”
“Oh, God, Rupert, of course not!” She reached over and touched his hand. “Before the year is out, I’ll be doing the same thing.”
“Damn it, Alex! Marrying Kit Hatton is not the same thing. You’ve known each other since you were children. It has always been understood that you would marry.”
“Turn down this street.”
“It’s too narrow. . . . Good God, no wonder it stinks—this is the Rookery! Alex, it absolutely wasn’t necessary to show me; you could have simply told me.”
“Stop just along here.”
Rupert was driving slowly, and the horses stopped when he pulled back on the reins. He set the brake on the phaeton, then threw up his hands in resignation when Alex got down and expected him to follow her.
Alex went into the building and, without knocking on Maggie’s door, lifted the latch and walked in with no hesitation. She hurried over to the sofa and knelt before the coughing woman.
Her brother was right behind her. He looked down at the woman and tried to hide his distaste. “Who is this person?”
“She’s our mother, Rupert.”
Shocked silence filled the air for a full minute. Then he stepped back and murmured, “You are mistaken, Alex. Mother is in her forties; this woman must be in her sixties.”
“There is no mistake, Rupert. I shall get a blanket, then I want you to carry her out to the carriage. I’m taking her home.”
On the drive home, Alex sat in the back with her mother so she could not answer the questions that she knew Rupert must have. Maggie, or Margaret as Alex thought of her, didn’t seem to have the strength to protest being taken from where she lived, though between coughing bouts her face looked racked with worry. “Please don’t be distressed. I want you to get well. You can’t be alone anymore; you need someone to take care of you.”
When the carriage stopped in Berkeley Square, Alex alighted and spoke with Rupert. “I think you should carry her.”
“Alex!” Both his face and his voice were filled with alarm. “Does Dottie know about all this?”
“Not yet,” Alex temporized, refusing to let doubt sink its teeth into her.
“I’m not going in there! She’ll put the entire blame for this on me . . . she’ll savage me!”
“Dottie isn’t home; she’s away in the country.”
The relief on Rupert’s face would have been laughable if Alex had not shared her brother’s fear of their grandmother’s wrath.
Then another worry raised its ugly head. “Whatever will I do when the Hardings find out about this?” he muttered.
“You need not even discuss it with them. It is our business, and our business alone, Rupert.”
He carried the frail invalid upstairs and, as Alex directed, put her in the handsome bedchamber he had vacated when he married Olivia. He tried to ignore the gaping servants, but Hopkins followed him upstairs and handed him a note.
“A footman delivered this, my lord; you are needed at home.”
When Rupert read the note, a look of panic came into his face. “It’s Olivia . . . the baby . . . I must get back. You’ll have to excuse me, Alex.”
After Rupert left, Alex took Sara aside and explained that Maggie Field was her mother. The maid was astounded at such a revelation, but she was thankful that the woman who had made it possible for her to leave the Rookery had been rescued by her daughter. “What can I do to help? Perhaps I should bathe her?”
“The bath can wait, Sara. I think she needs something nourishing inside her. Would you go down and ask the cook to warm some broth and perhaps ready some bread and cheese? I’ll make up Rupert’s bed with some fresh linen. Later, I am going to find her a doctor.”
They heard a door slam downstairs and a raised voice. Dottie was home, and by the sound of it, she was in a temper. Alex went down to greet her with her heart in her mouth.
“Thank God I’m back to a sane environment! Lord Staines’s niece descended, and until I packed her off with a flea in her ear, it was barely controlled chaos!”
Hopkins took Dottie’s traveling bag and threw Alex an accusing look that clearly said, You are about to give your grandmother apoplexy!
“If there is one species I cannot abide, it is ingrates; parasites disguised as female relatives who descend like vultures at the rumor of a fatal illness. Makes one want to seek out their nest and crush their eggs!” Dottie started up the stairs.
Alex followed her. “How is Lord Staines?” she asked with genuine concern.
Dottie pierced her with a fierce glance. “He may have gone from rampant to stagnant in one fell swoop, but I assure you he is not ready to stick his spoon in the wall.” She spotted Sara, who had a guilty look on her face. “Why is everyone hovering about?” She lifted her head as she heard a wracking cough coming from Rupert’s bedroom. Dottie stalked into the chamber and stood stock-still, staring.
Alex wrung her hands. Her grandmother’s face looked as if it were carved from stone. Alex licked dry lips and opened her mouth.
“Leave us,” Dottie ordered; her tone brooked no disobedience.
Alone, the silence stretched between the two women for long, drawn-out minutes, then Margaret whispered, “Forgive me, Mother?”
A heartbeat later, Dottie, fighting back tears, gathered her daughter in her arms. “There is nothing to forgive, my dearest, other than the fact that you didn’t come to me sooner.”