Page 6 of For The Love Of A Widow

It was a side of Phineas he’d never witnessed. His intense, focused glare was highly unsettling.

“You have guests awaiting you, Phineas.” Daniel attempted to distract him once more. “Do not allow this to ruin your celebration. I can handle Charlie.”

“That will not be needed.” Phineas turned to his livery servant. “Gaines, bring the miscreant round to the stables. Now.”

Daniel set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. His thin frame quaked under the pressure as a gust of wind hit the boy in the face. A lone tear streaked down Charlie’s face, leaving a trail of murky, dirt-streaked skin until the drop landed on the lapel of his thin, patched coat.

“You may go, Linwood.” When Daniel made no move to depart, Phineas stalked his way, his boots thundering across the cobbled drive until he stood directly in front of him. Their noses were a mere inch apart. “Get in your carriage and leave.”

Phineas’s foul, alcohol-laced breath invaded Daniel’s senses. If he hadn’t already been deep in his cups, he would have become so from the fumes alone—not to mention the scent of cheap perfume made him woozy.

“I said go.” Phineas lunged forward, shoving Daniel toward his carriage, putting himself between him and Charlie.

Daniel was uncertain what prompted him to regain his balance, take one last look at Charlie, and climb into his waiting coach; however, that was what he did.

Phineas was not a cruel man, not unreasonable. Certainly, he was not someone who would harm a mere child for attempting to steal a loaf of bread to feed his family on Christmastide morning.

Daniel would never injure a child, especially one who only sought to care for his family. Phineas was raised the same as he…a lord, with the proper decorum expected of men of a certain class and status.

“Where to, your grace?” his driver shouted once seated atop the enclosed carriage once more.

“Home.” His command was barely out and the carriage in motion, pulling out of the curved drive, when the cries of the young boy reached him, following him until the early morning breeze was not strong enough to carry the sound any farther. “Turn around!”

CHAPTER 2

L ondon, England

September 1815

A cannon blared in the near distance, followed by a command to charge, and the firing of muskets. It was so close, Lady Colette Hughes flinched, halting her neat stitching long enough to calm herself and steady her hand once more before plunging her needle into the broken, torn flesh of the soldier on the gurney. The thread pulled easily through the ripped skin, staunching the flow of blood from where the tip of a bayonet had been thrust into her patient’s side during battle.

She pulled the thread taut and doubled back before leaning close to tie and bite off the end. There was no time to cut the string or for proper cleansing. Men would die long before infection set in if she did not complete her tasks efficiently and with swift, deft fingers.

The mud beneath her feet sucked at her worn boots as she stepped away from the table to allow another man to give the injured soldier a dose of laudanum to keep the pain from overtaking him.

She was uncertain when the rain from the storm had seeped into her workspace as the hours had melted into days of endless labor.

Acidic rust, the stench of fresh blood, filled the small medical tent she’d been assigned once the battle had begun two days prior. She’d argued men could not be properly treated when exposed to the harsh elements and the rain that pelted the area. Within the enclosure, the smell of rotting flesh, blood, and human waste was overpowering, yet Colette—Lady Lettie, as the soldiers called her—was determined to complete her task of aiding the wounded, regardless of the subpar conditions.

Lettie understood how fortunate she’d been to be chosen to journey with her husband’s infantry regiment, and she would not let these men down. Six years of endless, mind-numbing travel, battles spanning several countries, and caring for wounds as insignificant as a dog bite to injuries as shocking as severed limbs and missing eyes.

War was not a kind master who rewarded the loyal with a future of happiness. It was a cruel bitch who stole a man’s innocence and left him with nightmares he could not escape—even during his waking hours.

For the few women like Lettie, who’d dedicated and lost their own innocence to the hardships of battle and military service, the visions of wrecked bodies torn apart by cannon fire, musket shot, or rifle bullet did not ever go away. Alcohol to dim the hell of each waking hour was not an option for her. Many men—and their families back home in England—depended on her skill with a needle and thread, her steady hand when extracting shrapnel, and her knowledge of mixing powders to help with the brutal pain of the most severe injuries.

“Lady Lettie!” a man shouted, pulling back the flap on the tent. “M’lady. I brought him as quick as me feet could run.”

Gus hurried into the tent, dropping the flap closed behind him and cutting off the sparse light from outside. A man was slung over his shoulder, not moving, and Lettie could see the blood soaking into Gus’s coat. Clothing of any sort was as hard to come by as decent rations of food, and now Gus’s only protection from the cold rain was ruined, the acidic, rusty odor would likely last just as long as the stain.

“Over here, Gus.” Lettie waved the soldier to the only empty gurney remaining. “What injury should I prepare for?” She rushed to the small makeshift cabinet made from the discarded wood pieces of a broken-down wagon. Pulling the door wide, she inspected her ever dwindling stock of supplies. If the battle lasted much longer, she’d be useless to the wounded. Even her scraps of torn fabric for dressing wounds were almost gone.

“He be hit by a cannon and then pierced clean through by a fifer,” Gus huffed.

Lettie heard the man swing the injured soldier onto the gurney as she collected all she’d need to treat the most severe wounds. The hurt soldier didn’t so much as protest the jarring movement when his body hit the stiff board.

With as many supplies as she could carry, Lettie turned to her patient, muttering a quick prayer for the man. She trudged back through the muck, deepening by the hour from the continued onslaught of rain as it seeped into the tent. She sent another prayer of gratitude heavenward that at least she had a tent over her head and wasn’t made to tend the wounded soaking wet.

She organized the bottles, poultices, and dressings on the small, tilting table beside her newest patient. “Gus, is he coherent?”