Page 7 of For The Love Of A Widow

“No, m’lady.” Gus removed his cap and clutched it before him, water streaming to the ground at his feet as his fingers gripped it, wringing out the rain. “Knocked senseless by the blast.”

Lettie took in the prone form lying face down. “Can you roll him over so I can assess any injuries to his face and head?”

The man hesitated.

“We haven’t all night, Gus,” she huffed. “You know I cannot manhandle this soldier on my own.”

The man sighed, his shoulders hunching, but he stepped forward and grasped the injured soldier by his midsection.

“Easy now,” Lettie coached him. “We cannot risk harming him further. He has lost much blood.”

As Gus carefully rolled the man over, another round of cannon fire erupted, and the ground shook beneath Lettie. Answering rifle shots filled the air, and the clank of swords and daggers rang on the breeze.

Gus’s movement revealed a face she knew not only by sight but also by touch, smell, and even sound. She would know his shallow, leisurely breathing anywhere. Or the smell of the fresh scent he preferred. Even her fingers recognized the soft, even curve of his jaw and the dimple that showed when he laughed.

“Gregory?”

“I didna mean for ye to see him like this—“

“My love!” Lettie dropped the decanter of liquor she’d held in preparation of cleaning the soldier’s open wounds—her husband’s open wounds. The man was no longer a stranger. The bottle struck the ground and sank into the mud, not shattering. “Gregory! Can you hear me?”

But he remained still.

His chest didn’t rise or fall.

His eyes remained open, staring directly at her, yet devoid of life.

“ My lady.” A rough hand shook her shoulder. “We are arriving at The George shortly.”

Lettie’s eyes fluttered open to find not Gus, but an elderly man who’d joined her in the coaching carriage in Dover. The rocking beneath her was not due to cannon fire but the moving conveyance. And no scent of decay or drying blood hung in the air.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he continued.

She pushed up straight from her slouched position, her head tilted and leaned against the side of the carriage. She’d been lucky enough to gain a seat closest to the window. Her head pounded, and her neck ached from hours slumped awkwardly in sleep—a fitful, dark slumber that had given her no relief from the exhaustion she’d been unable to escape since that June day at Waterloo.

The single instant that had irrevocably changed every moment to come.

She’d awoken that day a married woman of over six years—and had ended it a war widow.

No husband, no home, no money, and no sense of future.

And only given a few days to reconcile all these facts before bidding farewell to Waterloo, packing her meager possessions, and setting off for England.

Lettie pulled her bonnet down to shield her watering eyes, though it was more intended to cover her short hair. In all the years since she’d shorn off her long, brown tresses, Lettie had never been embarrassed by her decision. Short hair was far easier to maintain and keep free of bugs while sleeping on the ground and traveling by foot. When she’d landed in Dover a few days prior, it had been with apprehension that she’d spent her remaining coin on a room with a decent bed to rest before her coach left two days later for London.

The other travelers had gone back to staring out the windows as they journeyed through the crowded, late-afternoon London streets, leaving her a spot of privacy to straighten her gown, button her overcoat, and secure her bonnet, ensuring that any wayward strands of unevenly cut hair were properly tucked. Her parents would likely not recognize her without her treasured tresses, famed as her only shining attribute. Long hair had always been one of the crowning glories of any proper English rose.

“Borough High Street stop!” a shout echoed in the crowded enclosed carriage. “The George. Only London stop.”

Lettie watched as the five other passengers scrambled to collect their belongings and prepare for departure. There was no need for her to do the same. She’d traveled from Waterloo with only a simple sack of her most treasured possessions. Mementos, a portrait of her and Gregory on their wedding day, and an extra set of clothes. It was all she was able to carry on her back after leaving the battlefield and traveling across the Channel back to her homeland.

She’d left England the daughter of an earl—Lettie’s mother a duchess in her own right—and returned a penniless widow.

The life she’d led before her marriage was of no significance to her. Lettie had never missed the finery and extravagance of town life. However, she did miss her husband. The hollowness in her chest grew ever more encompassing with each day that passed. Their love had been strong enough to endure years of hardships, traveling with the soldiers fighting Bonaparte. She’d come to terms with not starting her family and having children or the security of a home. She’d been willing to give all of that up to be with Gregory.

He’d been a brave, courageous man, dedicated to protecting all of Europe.

And now, she was left with no children, no place to call home, and without the man she’d promised to love and serve until her dying breath. She dashed away a rogue tear—she would not be reduced to a sobbing, weak female.