The Emerald Duchess Read online

  “Come away at once,” the duke commanded, holding out his arm. “There is nothing to do here but listen to the echo of the guns, and I see you are frightened. I will take you home, such as you should not be out in the streets alone, with dark coming on. People—men—do strange things in wartime.”

  Emily hesitated for a moment, and then she put her hand in his arm, grateful for his escort. As they walked away, she said, “You told me that once before, your Grace, but maids are not allowed the luxury of such social niceties.”

  He made an impatient movement with his other hand. “I still say that in your case, Miss Nelson, it would be wiser to be more prudent. I wish there was more time to talk; I would like to know in what circumstances you began your service, among other things. But come, tell me your direction.”

  Emily gave him the address of Lady Quentin’s house, and since she had no intention of telling him her origins, she was glad it was not very far away. She felt strange being so close to him, close enough to feel the hard muscles of his arm under her hand, and yet it was somehow comforting to be in his care. Since her head came only to his shoulder, he made her feel protected, and small and feminine. They walked through the streets in a silence that seemed to be casting a spell over her, and Emily wished the duke would say something, but when she peeked up at his dark face, it was to see him lost in thought, his dark brows drawn together in a ferocious frown.

  They reached the Quentin house at last. Emily withdrew her hand and curtsied, saying, “Thank you for your escort, your Grace. I hope it did not take you too far out of your way.”

  He stared down at her for a moment and then said absently, “That does not signify in the slightest. Have a care for yourself. A girl like you should not have to endure all this.” He waved his arm and then he turned and strode away.

  Emily stared after him for a moment, wondering whether he meant her being a servant in such a mean little house, or being caught in a country at war. She watched him until he disappeared around a corner, and then she ran inside to give Lady Quentin the news she had learned.

  The next two days were even harder for the civilians trapped in Brussels. Rumors flew—some true, some false, and no one had any way of knowing which was which. Some people shook their heads and insisted that the French were even then marching on the capital; others claimed a great victory for the British. To Lady Quentin and Emily it was all a nightmare.

  Lady Quentin had gone to Lady Charlotte Greville’s the morning after she had sent Emily to the ramparts. This lady had reassured her that the Guards had not been engaged as yet, but while this news sent her heart soaring, it was not much longer before a gentleman arrived and claimed that indeed they had been in the fight, and sustained heavy losses as well. Lady Charlotte frowned at this Mr. Barton, and when he saw Lady Quentin’s pale, strained face, he desisted, adding only, “Perhaps it is not so. Who can tell what is happening? And remember, ladies, the French are not here yet. We must remember Torres Vedras!”

  It was a very long day, and an even longer night. By the next morning, Emily felt sure that Lady Quentin would break her iron control if she did not have some definite word soon. Captain Quentin had not sent word, of course, for he believed that his wife was safe in Antwerp, so she did not even have the consolation that some of the other wives did, whose husbands wrote to them to tell them of their safety.

  They returned to Lady Charlotte’s house to wait. Toward afternoon, Lady Frances Webster came in, her face showing her worry and strain, and told those assembled that she had had a letter from Wellington written very early that same morning in the village of Waterloo, some eight miles from Brussels. She read out part of it to the shocked, silent gathering, and now they knew the worst. A desperate battle had been fought on Friday at Quatre Bras, which Wellington claimed to have won. But he cautioned her that the troops had had to retreat and that in the course of further fighting, he might have to withdraw even more—to Brussels, in fact. He advised her to get her family ready to evacuate to Antwerp in a moment’s notice. There was an excited, frightened buzz of conversation as Lady Frances read this section, and Emily, from where she was standing behind Lady Quentin’s chair, could see her mistress clenching her hands together so tightly that the knuckles were white.

  When Lady Frances was able to be heard again, she said loudly, “But have faith, my dears. The duke concludes by saying that he knows of no danger to us at present, and he promises to send word immediately if it should so come to pass.”

  Lady Quentin sat quietly for a moment, her head bowed. In spite of her fright, Emily wished she might help her, but there was nothing she could do, nothing anybody could do who had to sit and wait for news.

  “It is all right, Nelly,” Lady Quentin said with a faint smile when she glanced up to see her maid’s white, concerned face. “I thank you for your kindness, but Tony is all right. I would know if he were not, I am sure.”

  No further news came that day, and although Lady Charlotte tried to convince Lady Quentin to remain with her that night, she insisted on returning home with her maid. Two gentlemen went with them to ensure their safety. Emily had never seen the streets so quiet and empty, and she was glad to reach the little house and bolt the door behind them. It was raining again, which added to the general gloom.

  Lady Quentin sank down before the fire that Emily lit in the salon before she went to the kitchen to get her something to eat. There were a few eggs left, and some bread, and she shook her head over the state of their provisions while she made the tea.

  Lady Quentin insisted she sit down and join her when she carried the tray to the salon, but after making a little inconsequential conversation for a moment and sipping her tea, she rose and began to' pace up and down the salon while Emily watched her anxiously.

  “Something has happened, I know. I am afraid, suddenly so afraid,” she exclaimed. “I have a feeling—I wish I could describe it, Nelly, a feeling that Tony needs me. Dear God, keep him safe!” She ended with a sob, and Emily sprang up and went to put her arms around her. For a few moments there was no mistress, no maid, only two frightened girls. After a moment Lady Quentin pulled away, wiped her eyes, and announced that she thought they should both retire.

  “I will need my strength tomorrow, Nelly.”

  After she had been undressed and helped into bed, she said, “Call me at seven, Nelly. We have a vast amount to do; I really do not feel I can delay any longer.”

  The next morning, Lady Quentin sent her to Lady Charlotte’s to learn the latest news, and she-almost ran home through the streets when she heard, Napoleon was vanquished, the French were in full retreat, and Wellington and the allies were victorious! Lady Quentin exclaimed, but she did not stop what she was doing. Emily saw she had packed a portmanteau with a change of clothes, and laid out her waterproof cape and a severe bonnet. The medicine case lay open, and to it she had added several clean sheets. Emily was startled to see the captain’s dueling pistol as well. Lady Quentin sent her maid to the kitchen to pack a basket of food, and told her to be sure to include two bottles of brandy.

  “I am going to Tony, Nelly,” she said, never stopping from her packing. “Make haste, now, for you will have to go to headquarters to fetch the carriage.”

  Emily would have spoken and tried to make the lady remain in Brussels, but before she could reason with her, Lady Quentin snapped, “That is an order, Nelly! You could never convince me anyway that I should wait here quietly for Tony’s return. We must find him, and quickly! Do not ask me how I know this is so, I just do.”

  She was so stern and determined that Emily had no choice but to do her bidding. When she delivered Lady Quentin’s hastily written note to headquarters, one of the soldiers remaining there, an older man who told her his name was Corporal Deems, shook his head, but he not only harnessed the team, he also offered to drive them himself.

  “Know the captain,” he told Emily when she thanked him. She had been worried about two women setting out for the battlefield alone.
“Agree with the lady. Must see for herself that her husband came through the fighting safely.” He seemed about to say more, but thought better of it and helped Emily to the carriage perch without another word.

  When they reached the Quentin’s house, her mistress was ready to leave. She thanked the corporal so warmly that he blushed as he assured her he was delighted to be of service, and in a short time they were on the road to Waterloo.

  The road through the Forest of Soignes was crowded, although there were many more conveyances coming from the front than going toward it. After a few moments, Emily tried not to look at the carts and wagons, so full of wounded men, some moaning, some ominously still. Lady Quentin would have stopped to search every one, until the corporal told her the wounded officers were cared for nearer the front and then transported in carriages, not dirty farm carts. Emily was relieved to be spared such a gruesome search.

  It was early afternoon before they reached the outskirts of Waterloo. The corporal insisted on turning the carriage off the main road into a farm track, before he went off on foot to see if he could discover any news of the captain. Lady Quentin would have insisted on going with him, except he said, “If we find the captain wounded, your ladyship, he may need transportation at once, and if we drive right into the village, your carriage may be taken for others before we even find him.”

  At this, Lady Quentin sank back on the seat to wait as patiently as she could. Emily brought out the basket of food and pressed some bread and cheese and wine on her mistress. It was quiet and peaceful in the lane, shaded as they were by large trees; the whole scene was so bucolic that it was impossible to imagine that not many yards away from where they sat and munched their repast, a great battle had taken place. There was still a smell of cordite in the air and some lingering smoke, but the birds were singing again, chirping happily in the boughs over their heads. Emily took a deep breath, but Lady Quentin shivered.

  “Hurry, Corporal,” she said more to herself than to her maid. “I know Tony is wounded and we must find him quickly.”

  The corporal did not return for an hour, an hour that seemed interminable to Lady Quentin. There was no news of the captain, and he was not being attended to in any of the makeshift hospitals that had been set up. He seemed encouraged by this news, but Lady Quentin’s eyes remained dark and worried. “Did you find out where the Guards fought, Corporal? Has no one seen him?”

  Corporal Deems admitted that no one at headquarters knew where he was. “Then we must go on,” Lady Quentin said, taking up the reins herself.

  “Here, your ladyship,” the soldier said as he climbed back into the carriage and took the reins from her hands. “’Tis not fitting! No sight for ladies!”

  Lady Quentin shook her head. “I must find my husband no matter how horrible it is, Corporal. I must search until I find him.”

  The soldier hung his head in resignation as he set the horses in motion to turn the carriage. “Has anyone seen Sergeant Boothby?” she asked next. “I know he would not leave Tony. Why, he has saved his life once before.”

  But the sergeant was also missing, and it was a silent trio who began their search. Once out of the village proper, the flattened and sometimes bloody cornstalks of the fields told their own story, even without the numerous bodies of men and horses that lay where they had fallen. Here and there were clumps of men resting together, and whenever possible, the corporal approached them to ask for news of the captain. They continued down the road to the still-burning Chateau Hougoumont. The corporal told them the Coldstream Guards had defended it successfully, and as Emily stared at the few blackened walls that remained, she wondered briefly if Colonel Rogers had survived. It did not seem as if anyone could have lived through such fire and destruction.

  Finally the corporal halted the team and turned to Lady Quentin. “We have come as far as the Guards were engaged, m’lady,” he said with respect. “What would you like me to do now?”

  There was a note of quiet admiration in his voice, for not once had Lady Quentin cried out or put her handkerchief to her mouth, no matter how grim the scene before her. The only time she had made any sound at all was when she saw a looter bending over a body to search the pockets of the dead man, but a shout from the corporal and the angry wave of his pistol made the man scurry away.

  Emily had been moved to tears more than once. To see a young drummer boy lying dead by the road, his white trousers as red with blood as his jacket, had sent tears coursing down her cheeks. He could not have been above thirteen, she thought, but she took her cue from her mistress and made not a sound.

  Now this lady thought for a moment, and then she asked the corporal to turn around and head back to Waterloo. “I know Tony is somewhere between us and the village. We must look more carefully.”

  The weary horses moved off, and it was just as well they were tired, for they were plodding along so slowly that Lady Quentin was able to spot a red sleeve with the insignia of the Guards in a clump of bushes near the road.

  “Stop!” she commanded, and before the corporal could help her, she got down from the carriage. Quickly she parted the bushes and stared down in horror at the body of Sergeant Boothby. Both legs were missing below the knee, and he had been cut with sabers many times.

  Emily, who had joined her mistress, cried out at the sight. Sergeant Boothby would not be “fine” this time, and he would never land on his feet again, she thought, the hot tears beginning to fall as she stared at the body of the cocky little man who looked so much smaller in death than he had in life.

  Suddenly she heard Lady Quentin give a cry, and realizing she had gone ahead, she pushed her way through the bushes until she reached her side. The lady was kneeling beside the captain, lifting his head in her arms and calling his name. The corporal, who was close behind Emily, shook his head in sadness, for Captain Quentin looked as dead as his sergeant. His arm was cut in a long, deep saber wound, his uniform jacket was ripped in several places, and his handsome face was ashen pale and still.

  Emily went to her mistress to comfort her in her sorrow. “Come away, m’lady,” she whispered. “You cannot help him now.”

  Lady Quentin ignored her as she bent to put her ear to his chest. The tears were running down her face unheeded, but then she sat up and smiled at her companions. “He is not dead! Nelly, get the medicine case out of the carriage at once. Corporal, I shall need your help.”

  Emily hurried back to the road to fetch the heavy case, trying not to look at Sergeant Boothby as she passed him. When she reached her mistress again, the corporal was easing Captain Quentin’s jacket off. His wife opened the case in haste and began to tear one of the sheets into strips for bandages. She gasped when her husband’s chest was laid bare, for there was a bullet hole just below his right shoulder. It was bleeding in a slow, sluggish stream, and the corporal put a thick pad over it. When he lifted the captain to secure the bandage over the wound, he nodded in relief.

  “See here, your ladyship. The bullet passed through and out his back. That is good news.”

  “We must get him back to the hospital as soon as we can, corporal.” Lady Quentin nodded. “He has lost a lot of blood. Then, too, I do not like the look of that arm, and it is the same one he wounded before.”

  At last they had the captain bandaged as well as they could manage it on the rough ground. Lady Quentin wanted to help carry her husband, but neither Emily nor Corporal Deems would allow her to assist them. The soldier took the captain’s shoulders and Emily picked up his feet, and between them they managed, although Emily was panting when they reached the road, for the captain was a large and heavy man. Somehow the two of them got the unconscious man into the back of the carriage, where Lady Quentin was waiting to support him in her arms on the drive.

  “Hurry the horses, if you can, Corporal,” she called as he clucked to the team. Emily sat beside him, clutching the medicine case and trying not to shiver. When she looked down at her gown, she saw it was liberally spotted with her master’s
blood, and she put a shaking hand to her mouth.

  Behind her she could hear Lady Quentin murmuring and encouraging her husband, but she herself had nothing to do but relive the horror she had just witnessed.

  The corporal looked sideways at her white, frightened face and said kindly, “Nothing to be afraid of now, missy. I’ve seen men worse than that who have recovered, but ’tis a good thing her ladyship found him when she did.”

  Emily nodded, but she could not speak, and all the way back to Waterloo she found herself praying over and over that the captain would survive.

  At the hospital there were many willing hands to lift him down and carry him in to the surgeons, but when Lady Quentin tried to follow, she was firmly denied. A harassed-looking doctor told her she must wait outside. “I shall come and tell you of your husband’s condition as soon as I can, m’lady, but at the present, you would only hinder us.”

  With this, Lady Quentin had to be content and she slumped back in her seat, all her courage gone now that there was no more need for it. The corporal asked Emily if they had any spirits with them, and remembered the brandy, Emily searched the case until she found a bottle. “Aye, that’s what she needs—what you need too, missy,” he said with a smile as he poured them both a liberal tot. Emily felt the strong liquid burning her throat, but she felt better after she swallowed it. As they sat there in the carriage with the tired horses’ heads drooping almost to the ground, Emily saw some men come out of one of the still-intact buildings of the village. Then she heard a muffled exclamation and one of them broke away from his companions to hurry toward them. As if through a haze, she recognized the Duke of Wrotherham. He always seems to be there when I need him, she thought. Now why is that?

  “Lady Quentin!” the duke called out. “Why are you here?”

  Without waiting for her reply, he climbed into the carriage and took her hands in his. His black eyes went over both women, their air of exhaustion and their dishevelment and dirty, bloodstained gowns, and he frowned.