Was it because…Guilt ate at her. Yes, she had wanted to be free of him by nearly any means, but she hadn’t meant for him to be killed.
She stopped a soldier and asked where The Farm of Mont St Jean was and was sent down the proper road.
The nearer she came, the more men she saw waiting to be treated. Moans and cries filled the air along with the smell of rotting…she wasn’t certain what it was, but her stomach wanted to revolt.
How many men had been injured if hundreds were still waiting to see a surgeon four days after the battle.
How many had died?
What if Orlando had been killed too?
Panic seized her heart. Surgeons worked behind the lines, but that didn’t mean they also did not encounter danger.
She needed to see him. She needed to know that he was safe.
The building was just beyond the courtyard and as she stepped in, Blythe nearly recoiled at the sight of amputated limbs stacked in corners.
She took a step back and then another and continued until they could not be viewed any longer, yet she still needed to know that Orlando survived.
And just when she was about to face the horror of the courtyard once again, he stepped outside. His face was pale, cheeks sunken with circles beneath his eyes and his clothing was covered in blood.
She watched as he reached behind and massaged his neck before leaning against the stone wall as he lit a cheroot.
He was exhausted but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even cross the courtyard to go to him because of what else lay there—the limbs that he had probably helped remove.
Out of necessity, of course, but in that moment, she realized how much more important he was than she would ever be. Her life, up until this moment, had been insignificant in comparison to his. Her father may be a duke, but she was nothing. Her connection was all she could offer anyone. Even the women she had met during the Season had befriended her because she was the daughter of a duke with marriageable brothers. That was all anyone cared about and she had failed in securing her husband the position he coveted and her friends the husband they hoped to gain. What was her worth compared to Orlando who saved lives and worked tirelessly to heal the injured.
He may have genuinely liked her, but he had also rescued her. And what they had shared in a chamber in an inn on the outskirts of Brussels had not been real. It was an insulation from the world…from reality. One he stepped into every day, while she had hid herself away because of embarrassment.
Why would he want her?
He was needed. She was not. His work was important, and she had little to offer. He saw the horrors of the world and suffered the nightmares. She had worn pretty dresses and had gone to balls before she followed the drum, but even then, her life was not so difficult and being sold was a minor inconvenience when compared to what surrounded her.
She would always cherish what they shared in the chamber at Desmit Inn, but none of it was real, and she had been as much a coward as John. He wanted to avoid battle, she had feared gossip and embarrassment.
The only thing that had been real was her and Orlando’s friendship, or he would not have visited each night.
And friendship was all they would ever have even though she was a widow now because Orlando Valentine was so much more than she could ever be and once the world had settled and they no longer were sheltered away, hiding in a chamber, he would realize that too.
Orlando never looked over or saw her, for which she was thankful and instead of speaking with him, she returned to the inn to write him a letter, then packed her valise. It was time to free Orlando from his perceived obligation to her and go home. If he could face the reality of the consequences of war, then she could face her family with the truth.
Chapter Fourteen
March 1, 1818 ~ Approximately two years, nine months later
“Do you not think it rather odd that Lavinia is hosting a Venetian Breakfast?” Blythe asked Elizabeth Cates, Lady Andover, as they traveled from Matron Manor to the home owned by Lavinia’s brother, the Duke of Claybrook, where she resided.
“I am quite curious,” Elizabeth answered. “Lavinia is not one to host entertainments, unless it is to the benefit of her younger sisters and since the Season has not yet begun, with families just beginning to arrive in London, I cannot imagine why she would be hosting a breakfast now.”
This was very strange behavior for Lady Lavinia, widow of the Marquess of Teviot, and her friend..
It was a familial relationship that Blythe first shared with Lavinia because of Blythe’s cousin, Vanessa’s, marriage to Lavinia’s younger brother, Crispin Tilson, last spring, but the two did not become friends until last autumn. Prior to that time, Blythe had remained a recluse by choice and Lavinia had taken on the duties of her brother’s household and supervised her younger sisters. Neither had allowed for enjoyment and entertainment for themselves, until Lavinia had decided that she wanted more and Blythe was ready to enjoy the company of others. Not in a venue such as a ball, but something more intimate, such as Athena’s Salon. Lavinia had been of the same mind and it was not long before they were close friends, likely due to their shared widow state.
It was also Lavinia who had introduced her to Elizabeth and invited her to visit the women who sometimes lived at Matron Manor, privately called the Wicked Widows’ League. While Blythe enjoyed the friendships that had developed, she was far from a wicked widow. She was simply a widow.
Blythe turned in her seat to further face Elizabeth. “Have you had an opportunity to speak with Lavinia since she returned from Seaford?” Blythe asked.
“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “She was gone for nearly three months and I thought that she would call on me but she has not.”
