“He is here, in Brussels?” Mrs. Desmit cried.
“No. Not Brussels,” one of the husbands explained. “He is near. The Prussian army encountered the French near Fleurus and was pushed back and the French have crossed the Sambre River and were advancing and nearing Quatre Bras.”
“There was such a flurry of activity after it was learned. Anyone in uniform rushed from the ball until only some of us were left standing, not certain what to do,” the woman said.
“The courtyard and streets were full of military men trying to make their way back …or to battle,” the other woman said. “We waited until there was enough room for passage on the streets.”
The campaign had begun and all Blythe could do was wait until it was over.
Wait for Orlando to return.
The following day they received reports that the French had defeated the Prussian army at Ligny, but the British had held Quatre Bras.
On the seventeenth, Wellington ordered a retreat to the village of Waterloo, which made everyone nervous.
Then on June 18th, the French fought the Allied Forces, and in the end, the French had been defeated, but not without hundreds, if not thousands of casualties on each side.
On the following day, some of those staying at the inn ventured out to view the battlefield. Blythe couldn’t understand the morbid curiosity. It was not possible that the deceased had been buried and were likely still there. Why would anyone want to view that?
For four days Blythe waited and hoped that all was well with Orlando, but no news came and she finally set out to find him or Isabella.
Except, the first person she encountered that she knew, was a cavalry officer who had been with her husband’s troop.
“Mrs. Clay, I am terribly sorry for your loss.”
Blythe blinked at him and realized that she hadn’t even given a thought to John. Only Orlando.
“It happened quickly and I assure you that Lieutenant Clay did not suffer.”
“John?”
He straightened. “Have you not been told?”
“I have heard nothing of John.” Not since he sold her, which she refrained from stating.
“He was caught near Ligny…We were trying to ride ahead, to warn Wellington, but Lieutenant Clay was shot in the back and fell from his horse. I stopped to help, but he was already dead. I think he broke his neck in the fall.”
Blythe blinked at him again. “John is dead.”
“Yes, Mrs. Clay. I am sorry that I am the one to tell you.” He glanced around. “Would you like to sit? I am certain this must be a shock.”
“It is, but no…I…um…I was looking for someone. Miss Isabella Valentine. Do you know her?”
“I am sorry. I do not.”
“Do you know where the wounded are being treated?”
“The Farm at Mont St. Jean,” he answered. “There is a surgeon called Valentine there. Maybe he knows where this Isabella is.”
“Thank you.” She walked past him and in the direction of where the man had pointed.
John was dead.
She was a widow.
John was dead.
No matter how many times she repeated it to herself, she still could not believe that it was true. John was never supposed to die. He had managed to stay alive these past years.
