‘Will, what are you talking about?’
‘I told our father nothing of this, for I know he would disapprove, and her uncle is the vilest of men. She is at his mercy. Please, Rawden. When I came to war, I promised Grace that I would return and get her out of that hell. I swore an oath, and, on my honour, I cannot break it. She is waiting for me. Please, listen.’ Will’s voice had started to slur. ‘If I do not survive this day, you must help her. She is in dire straits. Her uncle….she needs protection…I…she lives at Grosvenor Square at Peel House. Her name is Grace Howden. Please, Rawden.’
The surgeon returned and started laying out his instruments. Rawden winced at the sight of a saw and a narrow curved blade, and Will saw it.
‘No, no,’ he cried. ‘I cannot. You must not.’
‘There is no time, Will. Trust me, please.’
‘Then promise. Swear you will help Grace. Swear on your honour, Rawden.’
Will’s fingers fell away. Another blast almost drowned Rawden’s reply as he put his mouth to Will’s ear. ‘I swear it, Will. I will find this Grace Howden, and she will have my protection, always.’
Rawden turned to Hardy with tears in his eyes and swallowed hard. His friend took hold of his shoulder in a cross between a pat and a squeeze. ‘We must go, Rawden. We must return to the line. The French lancers are cutting our infantry to pieces. Our orders are to hold the centre, or all is lost.’
‘To hell with orders. I am not leaving him,’ said Rawden.
Hardy nodded, blinking hard, face twisted in indecision, and Rawden turned to the surgeon. The man had his hand pressed to Will’s neck.
‘Let us do this thing,’ said Rawden.
The surgeon shook his head. ‘Too late. He is gone.’
***
Hardy’s gaze veered between the heavily armed French cavalry advancing up the ridge and back to him. Tears blurred Rawden’s vision, turning the folding hills into pools of green, like a watercolour painting. They merged into the dark blue mass of the enemy infantry line advancing under the protection of French cavalry.
Rawden forced his mind away from his brother lying in a foreign farmhouse in a pool of blood. He had an ache in his chest so great that it was as if a fist had burst through his breastbone and torn his heart out. With steely determination, he tore his mind back to his enemy. If he was lucky, his pain would end this day, for French cuirassiers were brave men and good swordsmen, and it would be no easy task to beat them back. Half the ranks assembled behind him would not see home again – the brave, glory-seeking fools, the whimpering boys. But there would be no retreat, for if they succumbed, Napoleon’s cavalry would cut through Wellington’s hasty retreat from the centre of his line, and it would all be over. If they succeeded, they would live to fight and die another day.
Smoke rose in grey pillars into the sky, and the fields around them exploded with cannon fire, sending mud, grass and bodies into the air. A bugle sounded the charge, and by instinct alone, Rawden wiped the tears from his eyes, kicked his horse in its flanks and charged.
He hit the first man head-on, slicing him from his horse. There was an almighty clash as cuirassiers met English cavalry swords, and then there was just slicing and punching and horses screaming. And when they had hacked their way to within range, the cannon fire began to pound the ground to dust, grit in his eyes, his horse falling away beneath him, and the smell of summer grass as he hit the ground. He rolled and sprang to his feet as a French rapier swung at his head. Fuelled by unimaginable rage, Rawden became a tireless and relentless throb of violence.
Hours later, as the sun lowered to a ball of gold over the hellish battlefield, Rawden was still standing, covered in other men’s blood and writhing inside in an agony of grief. He flung his head back to the sky and howled like an animal.
Chapter Twelve
The summer sun was burning her face, and all the flowers in the small garden were a kaleidoscope of colour and gaiety, but in her heart, it was winter. Hot tears made sticky tracks down her cheeks, and Grace dearly longed to stop crying but could not manage it.
It had been three weeks since word had come that a decisive battle was about to be waged at Waterloo in Belgium. Then, victory! London was abuzz with it. Her heart had soared to hear that the Duke of Wellington, his allies and the Prussians had eventually triumphed over Napoleon Bonaparte. William Voss would be coming home a hero, and he would marry her.
Now, she looked back and thought herself a pitiful fool to harbour such hopes, as the days had turned to weeks, and triumphant soldiers had returned home to a hero’s welcome. They had marched proudly through the streets, resplendent in their regimentals of scarlet, gold and black. But William was not among them.
Mrs. Talbot put an arm about her shoulders. ‘Surely this splendid day will give you cheer, Miss Howden. You cannot stay abed all day and not take the air. You will make yourself ill. Perhaps a letter will come today with news of your William.’
‘I wrote to the barracks days ago, and still no word. I do not think they will bother themselves replying to a letter from a woman who had no real connection to him.’
‘But you were betrothed, were you not?’ said Mrs. Talbot.
‘Nothing was officially announced.’
Uncle Charles bustled out of the house, and Grace quickly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. He noticed her reddened eyes, of course, and was irritated anew.
‘Not again. You must rally, Grace. We have no time for a long face and wailing. If that fool William Voss insisted on going off to face Napoleon, then it is his fault he is dead.’
‘Mr. Howden!’ exclaimed Mrs. Talbot in a rare act of defiance. ‘General Phelps wrote of that young man’s bravery in defending us from those brutal Frenchmen. He died with honour. How can you say such a thing?’
Charles Howden pulled on his riding gloves. ‘Yes, yes, I know, king and country and all that. But it is done now.’ He patted Grace half-heartedly on the shoulder. ‘Do not sully your pretty face with crying over spilt milk. It makes you look pink and puffy, like a little piglet, and most unbecoming. William Voss is gone, God rest his soul, and no changing it.’
