Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Georg von Hartenberg, one of the empire’s most prominent field marshals, war hero and man of immense consequence, found himself squeezing onto a hard, narrow bench in the dining room, between table and wall, together with a good fifty other people who had spread their blankets across the rough floorboards.
Most of them huddled around the tiled oven, while some soldiers and officers who had not had the luck to obtain a room spread themselves out on the benches and under the tables.
The storm outside blew with fierce intensity about the inn, howling and rattling the shutters as though demanding entrance.
There was snoring, groaning and sighing, the creaking of wooden planks and quiet whispering.
The strumming of a guitar twanging a melancholic Hungarian folk song was oddly soothing and no one complained.
It was one of the hussars in the corner by the tiled oven, who expressed his homesickness through the music.
Georg was in a foul mood, and the hard bench had nothing to do with it.
During his years of campaigning, beginning as a young Leutnant in one of the empire’s senior infantry regiments and rising through the staff, he had spent his share of nights on bare ground with only a thin blanket for company.
It came with the profession. Only later, as he ascended the ranks, had he been given a narrow cot set up in a tent, and eventually beds in various inns along the road.
Even at Leipzig, he had slept in a farmhouse bed while the battle raged in the fields beyond.
It would have taken but a lift of a finger for Schneider to obtain him a second room; but he had already dislodged one officer and given the room to his betrothed, and he would not do so a second time.
Where he slept hardly mattered. Earlier, another infantryman had recognised him and fallen into a reverent salute, very nearly alerting the entire room.
Fortunately, the general chaos in the room had been sufficient to swallow the moment.
Georg had growled at the man and threatened to court-martial him if he breathed so much as a syllable about his identity to anyone.
The man had paled and stammered an apology.
“I am Herr Berg,” Georg had told him. “Remember that.”
“Yes, Your Excell—I mean, Herr Berg. I just wanted to say, you are my hero, Your Excell—I mean, Herr Berg. Truly, you are. What you did at Leipzig—”
Georg skewered him with a glare.
“But we shall not speak of it,” the man stammered. “It is an honour that you sleep among us here. Truly it is.”
The poor man had nearly saluted again before Georg’s hiss brought him to his senses. The man returned some time later bearing a pile of pillows and a blanket and pressed it into Georg’s arms. “Please, take them. They are mine.”
Georg thanked him with a curt nod.
He had made his bed on the narrow bench, a pillow wedged behind his back and the blanket drawn over his legs, which he had stretched out full length in front of him after Schneider had pulled off his boots.
He leaned back against the wooden panelling, arms crossed, scowling at nothing in particular.
The cause of his ill humour was, in the first instance, that cheeky, coppery-haired poppet, who had managed to rile him for reasons he could not entirely account for. Field Marshal Hartenberg was not a man easily provoked. Even in the thick of battle, he was renowned for his nerves of steel.
He huffed.
The second cause lay ill with the measles in the room above.
His bride.
For the first time since his betrothal, a sliver of worry about his future discomfited him. And because ‘worry’ was a foreign word in the Field Marshal’s vocabulary, he was unsettled by the mere discovery that it unsettled him.
What, precisely, was the issue?
She was Julius’s sister. There was no man, aside from the Kaiser, he respected more.
There was no man he trusted more. His sister looked graceful enough, as graceful as one could look when one was suffering from the measles, and the few words she’d directed at him had been reasonable and composed. She was, clearly, a gently bred lady.
He should be glad, really, that he was to marry such a fine woman.
She would do very well.
But no, that was not it. Georg shifted and adjusted the pillow behind him. Certainly she would ‘do’ as a wife.
As anyone’s wife.
She would be the grace of anyone’s drawing room, make a fine figure as the field marshal’s wife, a hostess, a salonnière and so forth.
What bothered him, tremendously, was that she had been absconding.
Running from him as though she were coerced into this marriage against her will.
That was, of course, if that poppet was to be believed, for it had come out of her mouth with poorly concealed glee.
But he had no reason to doubt her, since she was Lady Evie’s companion and must naturally have some insight into the workings of her mind.
He rubbed his brow with one finger, perplexed.
It appeared, to his great consternation, that Lady Evie did not want to be married to him.
She was running away.
From this engagement.
From him.
It was as certain as Napoleon’s downfall.
He had never once considered Lady Evie’s thoughts and feelings on the matter until the poppet had thrust them upon him.
This was a variable he had not counted on, though the longer he thought about it, the absurdity of never having considered such a possibility was rather striking. It was, frankly, embarrassing.
No, it was an unforgivable weakness. Catastrophic, even.
To overlook a variable of such magnitude in the heat of battle was a fundamental error, and he had always considered himself above such failures.
Alas, when it came to women, he found himself on tenuous, marshy ground.
A withdrawal of troops would be the best tactic in such a situation, to reconnoitre before attempting a renewed offensive.
But Lady Evie was not an objective one could simply withdraw from and re-engage at leisure, could one?
Zum Donnerwetter, what was he to do?
To emphasise his conundrum, the universe sent a deafening clap of thunder that rattled the foundations of the house. It briefly occurred to him that if the house still had a roof the next morning, it would be a miracle.
His aide-de-camp lingered at the doorway, raising a lamp and surveying the room, as if to check whether everything was in good order.
Georg lifted a finger and beckoned him.
“Terrible weather.” Schneider shuddered. “The storm is worsening by the hour. It appears part of the roof has lifted from the stables. Happily, there are enough men about to help fix it, but it won’t improve matters here.”
“No, it won’t,” Georg agreed. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning, regardless of the weather. Wolfsthal isn’t too far from here, after all.”
Schneider’s eyes flew to his face. “You intend to abandon the women?”
“Nonsense,” he growled. “We’ll have to take them along.”
“But Lady Evangeline is dreadfully ill, sir. I am certain a trip like that, though short, might worsen her condition. The doctor will object most vehemently to having her moved.”
“It’s not ideal,” Georg agreed. “But it would be worse for her to stay here. In fact, it would be irresponsible to leave her in this overcrowded inn. The innkeeper is not happy about having a case of measles upstairs. He might throw her out regardless of her being the duke’s sister, and one could hardly blame him, given the number of people here who could get infected.
If we carry her to the carriage on a stretcher, she will experience an hour or so of discomfort, but then it will be over and she may recuperate at my hunting lodge for the remainder of her illness with better medical care. ”
Schneider nodded. “I will see where I can obtain a stretcher.” He hesitated before adding, “And Miss Honeywell?”
Georg pulled a grimace. “I suppose she’ll have to come along as well.”
Schneider’s face brightened. “Most excellent. I stand in awe and admiration of her, sir.”
“So you have, ever since she exited that carriage like the queen of the ball,” Georg said dryly.
“Not because of that, sir, but because of how heroically she has given up her room,” Schneider reported.
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean? She has acquired the innkeeper’s personal bedroom by a wily little manoeuvre that is almost worthy of respect.”
“Indeed, sir. Yet she is not occupying the room. She has given it to a mother with three children.”
Georg sat up. “And Miss Honeywell? Where is she sleeping?”
“In the laundry room, sir.” He paused. “This is where I am sleeping, as well.”
“What?” Georg barked.
“Outside, of course, sir, outside.” Schneider lifted both his hands. “To keep guard.”
“For heaven’s sake. Why?”
“Because I caught not one, but two fellows attempting to barge in, mistaking the laundry room for the latrine.”
Georg followed him outside the common room. At the end of the narrow corridor was an unassuming door that no doubt led to the laundry room.
“She is sleeping in there?”
It looked like it was no bigger than a storage cupboard.
“Yes, sir. On the floor, together with Mitzi.”
“Who the devil is Mitzi?”
“The inn’s laundry maid, sir.”
Schneider sat on the floor and leaned against the panelled wall. The corridor was so narrow, he couldn’t even fully stretch out his legs. He crossed his arms and looked up at Georg.
“And you intend to remain here?” Georg demanded.
“The entire night, sir.” His jaw strained as if stifling a yawn. “Keeping guard.” He shuffled to the side, so his head could rest against the wooden frame of the door, and closed his eyes.
Georg looked down at him with a frown.
This was promising to be a very long night, indeed.