A Regency Gentleman's Passion. Diane Gaston
returned with a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, a basin and cup. As she placed them on the bedside table, Gabriel swayed and looked as if he might collapse to the floor.
She hurried to him, helping him regain his balance. “Are you injured, Gabriel?”
He shook his head. “Tired.”
“Sit in the chair.” She eased him over to a wooden chair near the bed and ran to pour him a cup of the water.
He drank it greedily, but gestured for her to return to Claude.
Emmaline washed away blood and mud and bits of grass and cloth from her son’s skin and from his hair. Beneath his matted hair was a long gash. A musket ball had scraped him, but had not penetrated. His thigh had a huge hole in it from which blood still oozed. His chest was riddled with round red spots, turning to bruises.
“His chest plate stopped some of the musket balls,” Gabriel said. The cuirassiers wore steel chest plates, like the armour of medieval times.
The most worrisome wound was the one on his neck. The musket ball needed to come out.
She turned to Gabriel. “He needs a surgeon.”
He rubbed his face. “Won’t find one. There are thousands who need a surgeon. Most worse off.” His gaze met hers. “Too many.” A haunted expression came over his face.
Emmaline could not allow herself to think of what horrors he’d seen. She must think only of Claude, how to keep him alive.
She forced herself to remain calm. “I will remove the ball.”
“Emmaline—” he began in a warning tone.
She set her jaw in resolve. “There is no other choice. I have seen it done before. I must try.”
She ran from the room and gathered any items she could think of that would help her remove the ball: her knitting needles, a long embroidery hook, tweezers, scissors. The sky was turning light. At least she would be able to see better.
Back in Claude’s room, she pushed the bed to the window and set her tools on the bed next to her son.
Gabriel rose from the chair. “I’ll hold him still.”
How he would have the strength to do so, she didn’t know, but he stood on the opposite side of the bed and held Claude’s shoulders. She carefully inserted the knitting needle into the wound to find the path of the musket ball. Claude’s eyes opened and he cried out. Gabriel held him fast.
Swallowing against a sudden wave of nausea, Emmaline did not have to probe far. “It is not deep!”
Her tweezers were about five inches long, plenty of length to reach the ball. It took several tries to pull it out, all the while Claude writhing with the pain of it. He quickly lost consciousness and became limp. Finally she manoeuvred the ball to the opening and was able to hold it between her fingers. Gabriel released Claude and leaned against the wall.
“One more thing if you can stand it,” she said to Gabriel. “I want to sew his head wound closed.”
Gabriel’s arms trembled as he held Claude’s head while Emmaline put thread and needle through the skin, but Claude did not regain consciousness.
“Sit down now,” she told Gabriel after she was done.
She bandaged the wounds and covered Claude with clean linens and a blanket. He again moaned, but it was a relief to hear him make any sound. Later, as she had done when he was ill as a child, she would spoon broth down his throat and wipe his brow with cool compresses if he became feverish. There was little else she could do.
She stepped back from his bed.
Gabriel rose. “I must leave.”
She touched his arm. “Take some food first. Something to drink.” She wanted to tell him not to leave her, to stay. With his steadying presence, she felt as if she could do anything to keep Claude alive. Without him, she was alone.
She walked downstairs with him and made him sit at the table where he’d sat so many happier times before.
“Just something to drink,” he said.
She gave him wine and he drank it like water.
“Now I must go.” He stood again and walked towards the door.
“Gabriel.” She ran to him as he opened the door. “Who won the battle?”
He gave her a weary look. “The Allies.”
She was relieved. When—if—Claude recovered, he would not return to the French army. There would be no need if the British had won. He could have a normal, peaceful life.
Gabriel put his hand on the doorknob again.
“Gabriel!” she called again.
He turned.
She swallowed against a threat of tears. “Thank you for my son.”
He touched her face with a gentle hand and started to walk away.
She seized his arm. “Gabriel. How did you find him? You said there were so many …”
Again a bleak look crossed his face. “The cuirassiers attacked. I saw him fall near me.”
“They let you save him?” Surely it would be difficult to protect a Frenchman when so many were in need.
His eyes turned hard. “No one could stop me.” He crossed the threshold and made his way to the gate and out of her life.
Emmaline leaned against the door jamb, tears burning her eyes, a sob choking her throat. What had he risked for her?
To save her son.
London—June 1817
Two years after the battle of Waterloo, Gabe’s life could not have been more altered. Waterloo had ended the war and Napoleon had been exiled to Saint Helena, far enough away in the south Atlantic to pose no further threat. For a time, Gabe’s Royal Scots had been part of the Army of Occupation in France. Gabe wished they’d been sent somewhere more distant, not so close to Brussels, not so filled with reminders of what he most wanted to forget.
The orders finally came that the whole battalion would be shipped to Canterbury. Once there, however, Gabe’s battalion was disbanded and he was placed on half-pay. In what seemed like an instant he had no regiment, no orders and literally nothing to do.
Now he was in London and, like other officers let loose in a non-military world, was haunting the Horse Guards hoping to discover a regiment looking for officers, or visiting the War Office to get the forms necessary to write to regimental agents for a commission to purchase. On this warm June afternoon Gabe strode into the War Office to pick up more copies of the form the office had run out of the week before. Gabe had performed this same errand the day before and the day before that, without success. He was not optimistic that this day would yield a different result.
Three other officers of his acquaintance were on their way out.
“Deane!” one of them cried, slapping him on the back. “Come for more forms, have you?” He spoke with a thick Irish accent that had earned him the nickname ‘Irishman’.
“Indeed,” Gabe responded without enthusiasm. “Are you going to tell me they have a new supply?”
Another man, Major Hanson, stepped up. “Not going to tell you that. Webberly even offered a bribe if the fellow would find him one copy, but apparently there are still none to be had today. Maybe tomorrow, the fellow said.”
Webberly, the third of the trio, shook his head. “I was certain a bribe would work.”
Gabe gave him an impassive look.